Stop and smell the roses

Growing up one of the chores that I hated the most was pulling weeds out of flower beds. Just thinking about the dirt that would collect under my fingernails makes me shudder. And it was usually the hottest day of the summer that I was summoned outside to pull the thousands of weeds that had popped up over night. I remember my mom and sister discussing “dead heading” plants as if it wasn’t some kind of flower murder.

I also detested trimming the bushes. Such a tedious job. If landscaping were my job, we would have had flowerbeds full of white rock and yard ornaments.

When I graduated from college, I moved to Nashville with my friend, Clair.

Clair grew up as an apprentice to some yard/plant/flower experts.

The girl knew her way around a nursery…which I learned had a double meaning after living with Clair. When she told me her parents owned a nursery I was a little shocked because Clair and snotty kids didn’t really go together. She had a fear of TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury) with all small children and believed that an act of Congress should take place making it mandatory for toddlers to wear helmets.

Clair is about to purchase her own little helmet. We’ll find out if she needs pink or blue in March.

I learned the alternate definition for nursery when I started seeing pots of bulbs and greenery pop up all over our apartment.

Because Clair knew that I did not share her love she never put me in charge of her babies when she went out of town. When she would go visit her parents during the holidays, she put her plants in the BATHTUB!

Sheer genius I tell you.

From what I can remember, which is limited because I never actually helped to make sure the plants were thriving, she would fill the bathtub up with some water. An inch, maybe? I have absolutely no idea how she did it, but when I would come back to our apartment after my Christmas vacation, the plants always seemed to have grown 3 feet.

They enjoyed their vacation too, in their own personal sauna.

And let me tell you, there must be a secret to the bathtub sauna. I tried this method one time when I went on vacation and came back to some dead plants and a dirty bathtub.

Eventually, Clair and I moved out of our apartment into an actual house. Truly, “house” is too generous a term for what we moved into. “Postage stamp” is a better description.

A postage stamp that smelled like fabric softener. I used fabric softener to take down the wallpaper in my bedroom and the smell never went away. I have to use dryer sheets now because fabric softener makes me a little sick.

As luck would have it, our teeny, tiny house came with a teeny, tiny yard.

Which I promptly turned over to Clair. I was NO help whatsoever in beautifying our flowerbed. I am positive that several grumblings including my name passed Clair’s lips. I was useless. Clair, I am sorry that I was such a slacker…I am publicly apologizing for my ignorance.

Actually, I am not even sure that Clair reads my blog. But, if she does, I guarantee you that she has been nodding her head at all of the above and is probably a little teary eyed over my public apology.

Or thinking, “It’s about stinking time!”.

Huge props to Clair, because she made our postage stamp a decorated postage stamp.

Eventually, Clair moved to Kentucky and I had to find a dwelling on my own.

I chose an apartment. There is no yard!

BUT, thanks to the influence of Clair, saw the benefit of having something pretty growing.

I went to Lowe’s and purchased a pot, some soil, and a few pansies.

These are the flowers that I killed in my bathtub a few weeks later.

I hung up my gardening gloves for good after that.

Guess what God did? He took care of me. He allowed me to marry a man who LIKES to work in the yard. God really, really loves me!

Because I am a submissive wife, like I have been instructed, I help some in the yard. I go out and say, “Hey honey, looks great! Maybe you should mow the yard in diagonal stripes instead of straight rows.”

I make trips to Lowe’s, the NURSERY section, and look at the foliage offerings and state my opinion (although, I really don’t care).

I actually get my hands in the dirt and plant some flowers with him.

Wife of the year, don’t you think?

I have mowed our yard before.

Once. I was hot and sweaty and dirty afterwards and didn’t enjoy it.

My time spent in our yard, doing work, is minimal.

When I got home from Harrison last night, I saw that I sign had been place in our yard.

My first thought was, “Did Matthew put our house up for sale and not tell me about it?” I wasn’t even upset by it, just curious about how much he was asking for it.

As I shined my cars headlights onto the sign, to see which Realtor he had gone with, this is what I saw…

I really feel like I should add at the bottom, with a black marker, “by Matthew”.

But, if you want to know the honest truth, this “honor” is a bit embarrassing to us. When we go on walks, we will point out yards that have been chosen in the past and say to each other, “You’re kidding!!!! THAT YARD was chosen? I mean, it’s a nice yard, but “Yard of the Month”, kind of pushing it, don’t you think?”

Now, people are going to walk past our house and whisper to each other, “You’re kidding?”

Nope, not kidding, this girl won. Black thumbs and all.

Oh, and her green thumbed husband.