Seriously. Ever heard of a guy called King Midas? I am his gardening equivalent. Except instead of gold, everything that I touch turns to dead.
Let me explain:
When I was a young bride, my husband informed me that he wanted a garden. He had grown up with one and spent time each summer canning the fruits of the collective family labor. I, on the other hand, took on the task of killing Mom's Mother's Day plant each year. In short, I have a bad track-record with plants.
I wasn't thrilled with the idea, as gardening with my mom during my teenage years only proved to me that I was allergic to any and all things organic and that I have the Super-Human ability to kill anything that manages to grow under my care. But, young and dumb, though I was and agreed to give a a go. Or two. Or three.
We started with a houseplant that we got on sale at Target with a leftover wedding gift card. His name was Walter. Long story, but every plant deserves a name. Walter was foolproof. I could not kill him. Or so I thought. After some over watering and under watering, I turned the botanical reins over to my sister-in-law, and when we moved, we left him on the doorstep of some green-thumbed friends.
Zoom ahead about 2 years.
While living in Pocatello, Idaho, we lived in an apartment with a window box. We were told that we would be allowed to grow anything that we wanted, short of illegal substances, in our boxes. Being a young Mom, I decided that it was time to teach my two-year-old the value of work. Flowers would be a welcome addition to my drab kitchen and so, in the spring, I did it all right. I bought the little planter things that you get them to seed in, indoors. I watered only according to package directions. I began to see something grow. They were beautiful and more knowledgeable than I. I opened the blinds one morning to give my little sprouts some sun, and a little water. As I turned my back on the plants, they committed suicide. I kid you not. Though they were stable, perched on my extra-wide window sill, they plunged to their deaths on my tiled kitchen floor. Though they did not leave a note, I heard them loud and clear; You should not be doing this.
Come with me again, ahead nearly four years. My yard is equipped with Astro Turf. Long, luxurious Astro Turf, mind you, but still, unkillable Astro Turf. Last summer I managed to kill one of the three "tolerant" bushes planted in our patio planters, and I am scared to death to prune my dwarf lemon tree. Really, just waiting for it to die.
Why, then, did I think that planting more flowers would be a good idea? My logic eludes even me.
Something was growing here...
Then this happened...
Something appears to be growing here:
Oh wait, too many somethings.
Mold. Despite the greenhouse-esque effect of my bathroom with it's large garden tub and brilliant late afternoon sun through the 4 x 4 glass-block window. Apparently it's the wrong kind of "Perfect Storm".
Really, how many plants must die before I am put to a stop?
I hereby throw in my gardening tools, will, and delusions. I guess this is why they invented silks. Someday I intend to have wonderful, beautiful grounds and a landscaper to match. Someone must save them from a fate worse than death.
In the meantime, anyone need some slightly-used planters?
Today I feel like writing. I'm sorry, I just do. I have a stream-of-conscience or rather, ADD, issue going on inside my head. I feel that this may be therapeutic in some way. Bear with me.
Is anyone else having the hardest time getting "into" Easter? Me too. It's not that I don't like Easter, in fact, I really do. But for some reason it hasn't taken its hold on me this year.
You see, last year, I had all of my Easter supplies ready and on-hand no less than two weeks in advance. Not only that, but I had planned everything in mid-February. I am such a planner. Generally planning gives me a high. I feel prepared, on task, and mind-haze free.
Not this year.
It could be that I was sick with the flu all last week or the fact that as an addition to being sick, I lost my voice on Monday night and have been mute since. I just got around to Easter baskets yesterday, but have no idea where the actual baskets are or when I will buy Mason's. I am finally starting to understand those plastic, all-inclusive, shrink-wrapped Easter baskets that you find at the supermarket. The kind I always wanted as a kid but the kind I, and my children, will only ever dream of.
My kids have yet to see the Easter Bunny. In fact, they have no idea that he's been frequenting the Mall where we should be going to get the new matching Easter ties that I've been meaning to look into.
Easter dinner. Oh dear. Will my family forgive me if I don't make homemade scalloped potatoes and a honey ham? I just don't have the energy. Not to plan, shop, or especially execute.
I read about things while I am blog-stalking, about all the cute things that people have been doing with their kids. It makes me feel even more behind. And lazy.
Thank goodness Grandpa already dyed eggs with the kids. Yep. Not me. Grandpa.
But really, didn't I just finish making all my kids' Valentines? I'm sure that was only last week. Christmas is enough planning that it should last all year through, right? Let's just focus on the meaning of Easter this year and not the traditions. If only that didn't just make me feel lazy.
No worries; As the sun sets on April 3rd, I'm sure that I'll have picked my attitude up off the floor, dusted it off, and started peeling potatoes. Until then, maybe a to-do list will help...