I have a "black" thumb aka"the thumb of death". Martha Stewart do you make house calls? I promise we won't talk about stocks or prison life. Help Martha, help, I'm a flower assassin! Now granted I never wanted my own garden, looking at other people's tulips was good enough. I could never figure out why anyone would want to crawl around in dirt for hours wearing giant gloves. I've always hated dirt and gloves. Plants were a big responsibility; too much water, too little water, no water, who wouldn't get anxiety? I bought a "Wandering Jew" once , supposedly they never die, just grow, grow, grow. I'm Jewish, I swear I didn't kill it on purpose. The guilt was more than I could bare. Ixnay to anything that required dirt, gloves and water.
So how and why did I become Rebecca of freaking Sunnybrook Farm? A tray of unpotted Begonias was sitting on the deck waiting for my boyfriend to plant them. Waiting... still waiting... dying... crap. "I can't help you, I killed a wandering Jew, I'm a jinx, I hate dirt... I don't have gloves". Yet, I couldn't bare the sight of half dead pink things;how hard could it be to put one stupid little plant in a pot? Heroin, crack, meth, you name it, those little flowers hooked me like drugs. I became a potting machine. I potted everything in sight. I even wondered whether I could grow tobacco by planting a cigarette butt that was lying in a bush.
I have no life. I've become a gardener. I get up, grab coffee and run out to see what flowers are living , dead or got sick while I slept. I have the vigilance of a time lapse camera. And yes, I need medication. I boldly planted an entire bed of Impatients which are trying my patience , as they mock me with feigned death. I've begged , sang , crawled on my hands and knees covered in mosquito bites pleading with them to find a reason to live. I thought they were kill proof?! "Please don't die! I can't afford more therapy". Martha Stewart you'll know, should I hire a stringed quartet or see if they'd prefer Evian water?
Friday, July 18, 2008
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