"You are not ordering more seeds or more plants," Jeremy says in his best commanding voice. "I told you, no more until we get irrigation in." I just look at him and nod and think about plants and seeds I might want to order. I've discovered that, sometimes, it's best if I at least look like I'm agreeing with him, although I don't know why I bother because both of us know I'm not. I think maybe it just gives Jeremy hope--hope that one day I will actually listen and do what he wants me to do. And who am I to squash his dreams?
"I forbid you to order any plants or seeds this year," Jeremy says sternly, trying to look all foreboding and intimidating. I just stare back at him and laugh. What was he thinking? I forbid you--like that has ever worked. In fact, it's probably the fastest to make me do exactly what he doesn't want me to do. The only thing he could successfully forbid me to do would be domestic type stuff. Why hasn't he ever tried "I forbid you to cook (he might have a little less indigestion at times with that one)," or "I forbid you to do laundry," or the one I'd really go along with, "I forbid you to dust." But no. He picks all the wrong things like "I forbid you to drive on the grass," or "I forbid you to order more Halloween decorations."
After I finished laughing at him, I decided to just dismiss him. "I'm not going to order anything. I'm just going to look at a few things. Do some research." Yeah right. We both know that means that within the next day, at minimum, I'll be ordering something. He goes back to conquering the world. I cannot quite figure out how Washington just nuked his calvalry or why Alexander the Great has a Giant Death Robot, but hey, at least he's ignoring me again. Which is good, because, as we both know, I'm definitely ordering plants and seeds.
I realize that most husbands would be delighted if their wives wanted to do landscaping work, which is something I get excited about every year. The problem is that my landscaping work is never successful. For the past three summers I've been trying to beautify our yard. For the past three summers I've pretty much just gotten it ready for an excellent Halloween tableau. If my landscaping projects could be featured in a magazine article or on a television show, they'd be the ones on "What NEVER to Do. Normally, I would eagerly give up on anything that I sucked at. That's why we have dust. That's why there's red paint on the woodwork. But, for some unknown reason (at least not one that I have worked out), I refuse to give up on the landscaping projects. Of all the things I probably should not stick with, landscaping would be highest on the list.
First, there was 2009 and my whole seed starting idea. Had I actually planted all the plants on time, things might have went wonderfully. Instead, I waited until, oh, July to actually dig up the beds. By July, half the plants that had sprouted from my seeds had died. Yes, I committed plant genocide because I forgot to water them for a brief period of time--by brief, I mean whatever length of time it takes a tiny plant to shrivel up and die. In other words, I'm not sure how many weeks elapsed in between plant waterings. However, when I finally did water them, I made sure I compensated for all those weeks without. This water compensation also did not seem to benefit the little sprouts. Picky little things, those plants. Then, when I finally get them planted, they all just up and die. Not a single one survived! Jeremy seemed to know this would happen. Something about plants that aren't established by July not doing very well. The reality is that I knew my plants probably weren't going to do very well, since July is not really advocated as the appropriate time of year to plant, well, anything in Georgia. But I like to think of myself as an optimist, so I had high hopes that at least a small number of plants would survive. Shoot, if even one had survived, I would have congratulated myself, but alas. . .
Last year, I decided my problem lay in the fact that I had not dug up the beds before I started my whole project. Of course, it was only me putting off digging up the beds that had caused my plants to die. So I knew that by the end of summer 2010, our yard would be beautiful. All the beds were now dug up, so all I had to do was actually plant my plants and flowers. On top of that, the whole seed starting thing was a mess, so for 2010, we were simply going to buy plants. I dragged Jeremy around from gardening center to gardening center. We bought verbena and caladiums, and sweet potato vines. We bought yellow Knockout roses and a yellow climbing rose. We bought bulbs and fern rhizomes and confederate jasmine. I even planted them all on time! I was so proud of myself as I dragged the hose through the yard every other night, watering my beautiful beds. For once, I was going to have pretty flowers all around my house (or at least in the spots where I had finally dug up the beds). Then, catastrophe. We took a vacation back to Iowa for a week around the 4th of July. Somehow, when we got back home in mid July, I couldn't get myself back into the plant watering practice. Plants don't seem to like to be without water through July and August. By the end of the summer, the only things left alive in my beds were some very scraggly looking sweet potato vines--vines that had quit growing probably in July and had spent the past month and a half slowly turning an odd shade of yellow--and the jasmine, which was in a shadier spot on the side of the house. Pretty much, Jeremy had spent all that money on pine straw, the only thing still "surviving." Of course, none of 2010's plant genocide was my fault. Obviously, it was because we went on vacation, and it just threw off my whole rhythm. After surveying my summer's death and destruction, Jeremy passed his edict--I could not do any more landscaping projects until we had irrigation.
Which brings us up to date. I started off just looking for vegetable seeds, since we've been wanting to get a garden in for the past two very wet and rainy weeks. Last year, we made several slightly disheartening discoveries after attempting our first Georgia garden. The first was that peas planted in May do not do very well. We got 1 pea pod off the entire row of peas we planted. We eagerly popped the one pea pod open when it was finally ready, since there is nothing better then fresh, raw, garden peas. Six delightful little peas peeked out of the pod, which meant three for each of us. We divvied up the peas, hovering over them like some sort of weird pea junkies. And then tragedy struck. Jeremy dropped one of his three on the floor, and Audrey ate it. The next thing we discovered was that tomato plants quit producing tomatoes when it gets really hot in July. For about 2 weeks, I got wonderful, succulent tomatoes . . . and then nothing. They were done, kaput, finished. I have no clue what happened to the cantelope and watermelons, but we only got one watermelon and no cantelopes--and that was after the first round of cantelope seeds failed to sprout. That's when we learned that in Georgia, you really need to plant certain things by the end of February or beginning of March. While almost everything else in our garden failed last year, the okra, wouldn't stop. Sadly, neither of us are really fans of okra. I started cooking it in my homemade dog food just so it wouldn't go to waste.
The whole reason the okra was in the garden to begin with was because I went on a weird colored vegetable seed buying spree last spring. I ordered things like purple carrots, and rainbow chard, and "burgundy" okra. Since we couldn't plant the chard or the carrots, Jeremy conceded and let me plant the okra. So, you can imagine my delight when, while not researching landscaping projects, I came across purple cauliflower seed. I looked at the picture of the purple cauliflower. It was a beautiful, vibrant shade, no, an electric shade of plum purple. It was the most beautiful cauliflower I'd ever seen. I wanted it!
"Purple cauliflower!" I exclaimed. Jeremy looked up from his game.
"No," he flatly responded.
"But it's purple!" Obviously, he was not getting the full import of this discovery. I, on the other hand, was thinking how marvelous it would be to serve mashed cauliflower that was purple.
"Yay!" He shouted, waving his arms in the air like a very bad disco dancer. I sensed sarcasm--okay, so maybe I didn't even have to sense the sarcasm. It was pretty blatant.
"But you like cauliflower, and white is so boring," was the best I could come up with.
"White is not boring, and we don't need any more seeds for the garden." I sighed. I don't know what I was thinking last year, but when we sorted through the seeds a few weekends ago, there were like 5 different packs of radish seeds, 3 carrots, 7 different types of greens . . .
I brightened. No vegetable seeds needed. That meant I should definitely look at plants and flowers. If we look at the unfolding scenario rationally, we can see that this is all Jeremy's fault. Had he just let me buy vegetable seeds, I might have been satisfied. But no, he had to denigrate the breathtakingly beautiful purple cauliflower for which I yearned. So I mapped out a plan. Given the previous years' failures, not only would I better research the plants I wanted to use, but also, I would try to spend very little money. Jeremy couldn't be upset if there was extremely mimimal monetary loss at the end of the summer. I found an awesome deal at Michigan Bulb where if you ordered at least $40, you got $20 off. So, for only about $32, I got 3 ghost ferns, 3 bleeding hearts, and 3 red, reblooming miniature daylily plants. At Park Seed, I carefully surveyed the plants and flowers that would go in my full-sun beds, and only ordered seeds for varieties that were heat, drought, and, in some cases, humidity resistant. How could I go wrong with those?
As I wait for my plant and seed deliveries for this year, I am absolutely positive that there is no way my flower beds can fail. After all, I had to have learned something over the past few years. I will start the seeds inside, then, in March, I will get them all planted in the beds. Since the beds are all dug up, all I should have to do is weed a bit, and then just pop the plants in. Plus, with all the heat/drought tolerant varieties that I bought, that should mean they can go with less water, right? So if I forget for a tiny little bit, no problem! Plus, I have a watering plan. It's absolutely brilliant, and I don't see any way it could fail. I'm going to see if the fire department will bring a truck around to the house a couple times a week. Those trucks have really big hoses, so it would make watering the plants a heck of a lot easier. I don't see why they wouldn't. I mean, unless there's a fire, they don't really need the truck--it's just sitting there in the station doing nothing. Shoot, I'd even go pick it up and drive it back home myself. While I'm at it, I could use the hose's water pressure to chip of some of the peeling paint from the house and get it ready to repaint. I predict that by the end of summer 11, Jeremy will be reevaluating my landscaping skills and wondering what made him "forbid" me to buy plants and seeds to begin with.
"I forbid you to order any plants or seeds this year," Jeremy says sternly, trying to look all foreboding and intimidating. I just stare back at him and laugh. What was he thinking? I forbid you--like that has ever worked. In fact, it's probably the fastest to make me do exactly what he doesn't want me to do. The only thing he could successfully forbid me to do would be domestic type stuff. Why hasn't he ever tried "I forbid you to cook (he might have a little less indigestion at times with that one)," or "I forbid you to do laundry," or the one I'd really go along with, "I forbid you to dust." But no. He picks all the wrong things like "I forbid you to drive on the grass," or "I forbid you to order more Halloween decorations."
After I finished laughing at him, I decided to just dismiss him. "I'm not going to order anything. I'm just going to look at a few things. Do some research." Yeah right. We both know that means that within the next day, at minimum, I'll be ordering something. He goes back to conquering the world. I cannot quite figure out how Washington just nuked his calvalry or why Alexander the Great has a Giant Death Robot, but hey, at least he's ignoring me again. Which is good, because, as we both know, I'm definitely ordering plants and seeds.
I realize that most husbands would be delighted if their wives wanted to do landscaping work, which is something I get excited about every year. The problem is that my landscaping work is never successful. For the past three summers I've been trying to beautify our yard. For the past three summers I've pretty much just gotten it ready for an excellent Halloween tableau. If my landscaping projects could be featured in a magazine article or on a television show, they'd be the ones on "What NEVER to Do. Normally, I would eagerly give up on anything that I sucked at. That's why we have dust. That's why there's red paint on the woodwork. But, for some unknown reason (at least not one that I have worked out), I refuse to give up on the landscaping projects. Of all the things I probably should not stick with, landscaping would be highest on the list.
First, there was 2009 and my whole seed starting idea. Had I actually planted all the plants on time, things might have went wonderfully. Instead, I waited until, oh, July to actually dig up the beds. By July, half the plants that had sprouted from my seeds had died. Yes, I committed plant genocide because I forgot to water them for a brief period of time--by brief, I mean whatever length of time it takes a tiny plant to shrivel up and die. In other words, I'm not sure how many weeks elapsed in between plant waterings. However, when I finally did water them, I made sure I compensated for all those weeks without. This water compensation also did not seem to benefit the little sprouts. Picky little things, those plants. Then, when I finally get them planted, they all just up and die. Not a single one survived! Jeremy seemed to know this would happen. Something about plants that aren't established by July not doing very well. The reality is that I knew my plants probably weren't going to do very well, since July is not really advocated as the appropriate time of year to plant, well, anything in Georgia. But I like to think of myself as an optimist, so I had high hopes that at least a small number of plants would survive. Shoot, if even one had survived, I would have congratulated myself, but alas. . .
Last year, I decided my problem lay in the fact that I had not dug up the beds before I started my whole project. Of course, it was only me putting off digging up the beds that had caused my plants to die. So I knew that by the end of summer 2010, our yard would be beautiful. All the beds were now dug up, so all I had to do was actually plant my plants and flowers. On top of that, the whole seed starting thing was a mess, so for 2010, we were simply going to buy plants. I dragged Jeremy around from gardening center to gardening center. We bought verbena and caladiums, and sweet potato vines. We bought yellow Knockout roses and a yellow climbing rose. We bought bulbs and fern rhizomes and confederate jasmine. I even planted them all on time! I was so proud of myself as I dragged the hose through the yard every other night, watering my beautiful beds. For once, I was going to have pretty flowers all around my house (or at least in the spots where I had finally dug up the beds). Then, catastrophe. We took a vacation back to Iowa for a week around the 4th of July. Somehow, when we got back home in mid July, I couldn't get myself back into the plant watering practice. Plants don't seem to like to be without water through July and August. By the end of the summer, the only things left alive in my beds were some very scraggly looking sweet potato vines--vines that had quit growing probably in July and had spent the past month and a half slowly turning an odd shade of yellow--and the jasmine, which was in a shadier spot on the side of the house. Pretty much, Jeremy had spent all that money on pine straw, the only thing still "surviving." Of course, none of 2010's plant genocide was my fault. Obviously, it was because we went on vacation, and it just threw off my whole rhythm. After surveying my summer's death and destruction, Jeremy passed his edict--I could not do any more landscaping projects until we had irrigation.
Which brings us up to date. I started off just looking for vegetable seeds, since we've been wanting to get a garden in for the past two very wet and rainy weeks. Last year, we made several slightly disheartening discoveries after attempting our first Georgia garden. The first was that peas planted in May do not do very well. We got 1 pea pod off the entire row of peas we planted. We eagerly popped the one pea pod open when it was finally ready, since there is nothing better then fresh, raw, garden peas. Six delightful little peas peeked out of the pod, which meant three for each of us. We divvied up the peas, hovering over them like some sort of weird pea junkies. And then tragedy struck. Jeremy dropped one of his three on the floor, and Audrey ate it. The next thing we discovered was that tomato plants quit producing tomatoes when it gets really hot in July. For about 2 weeks, I got wonderful, succulent tomatoes . . . and then nothing. They were done, kaput, finished. I have no clue what happened to the cantelope and watermelons, but we only got one watermelon and no cantelopes--and that was after the first round of cantelope seeds failed to sprout. That's when we learned that in Georgia, you really need to plant certain things by the end of February or beginning of March. While almost everything else in our garden failed last year, the okra, wouldn't stop. Sadly, neither of us are really fans of okra. I started cooking it in my homemade dog food just so it wouldn't go to waste.
The whole reason the okra was in the garden to begin with was because I went on a weird colored vegetable seed buying spree last spring. I ordered things like purple carrots, and rainbow chard, and "burgundy" okra. Since we couldn't plant the chard or the carrots, Jeremy conceded and let me plant the okra. So, you can imagine my delight when, while not researching landscaping projects, I came across purple cauliflower seed. I looked at the picture of the purple cauliflower. It was a beautiful, vibrant shade, no, an electric shade of plum purple. It was the most beautiful cauliflower I'd ever seen. I wanted it!
"Purple cauliflower!" I exclaimed. Jeremy looked up from his game.
"No," he flatly responded.
"But it's purple!" Obviously, he was not getting the full import of this discovery. I, on the other hand, was thinking how marvelous it would be to serve mashed cauliflower that was purple.
"Yay!" He shouted, waving his arms in the air like a very bad disco dancer. I sensed sarcasm--okay, so maybe I didn't even have to sense the sarcasm. It was pretty blatant.
"But you like cauliflower, and white is so boring," was the best I could come up with.
"White is not boring, and we don't need any more seeds for the garden." I sighed. I don't know what I was thinking last year, but when we sorted through the seeds a few weekends ago, there were like 5 different packs of radish seeds, 3 carrots, 7 different types of greens . . .
I brightened. No vegetable seeds needed. That meant I should definitely look at plants and flowers. If we look at the unfolding scenario rationally, we can see that this is all Jeremy's fault. Had he just let me buy vegetable seeds, I might have been satisfied. But no, he had to denigrate the breathtakingly beautiful purple cauliflower for which I yearned. So I mapped out a plan. Given the previous years' failures, not only would I better research the plants I wanted to use, but also, I would try to spend very little money. Jeremy couldn't be upset if there was extremely mimimal monetary loss at the end of the summer. I found an awesome deal at Michigan Bulb where if you ordered at least $40, you got $20 off. So, for only about $32, I got 3 ghost ferns, 3 bleeding hearts, and 3 red, reblooming miniature daylily plants. At Park Seed, I carefully surveyed the plants and flowers that would go in my full-sun beds, and only ordered seeds for varieties that were heat, drought, and, in some cases, humidity resistant. How could I go wrong with those?
As I wait for my plant and seed deliveries for this year, I am absolutely positive that there is no way my flower beds can fail. After all, I had to have learned something over the past few years. I will start the seeds inside, then, in March, I will get them all planted in the beds. Since the beds are all dug up, all I should have to do is weed a bit, and then just pop the plants in. Plus, with all the heat/drought tolerant varieties that I bought, that should mean they can go with less water, right? So if I forget for a tiny little bit, no problem! Plus, I have a watering plan. It's absolutely brilliant, and I don't see any way it could fail. I'm going to see if the fire department will bring a truck around to the house a couple times a week. Those trucks have really big hoses, so it would make watering the plants a heck of a lot easier. I don't see why they wouldn't. I mean, unless there's a fire, they don't really need the truck--it's just sitting there in the station doing nothing. Shoot, I'd even go pick it up and drive it back home myself. While I'm at it, I could use the hose's water pressure to chip of some of the peeling paint from the house and get it ready to repaint. I predict that by the end of summer 11, Jeremy will be reevaluating my landscaping skills and wondering what made him "forbid" me to buy plants and seeds to begin with.
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