i like looking at the green stuff. but tending to it is a pain in my petunia. gardening is hot, sweaty, dirty, back ache-inducing work, and i emphasize the word work. it's like choosing to be a field hand in my leisure time.
and the payoff is...more work. more weeds, more watering, more pruning, more scratches, more bug bites, more heat, sweat, dirt and aches. the stuff just keeps growing, no matter how much you whack it back. have you ever tried to eradicate a grape vine? you can't, nor can you kill day lilies. i've tried.
i don't mean to sound sniffy, but this is a hobby for the mentally deficient. "the jenny vee memorial garden for the slow," my husband calls it. it's kind of like camping, which is also stooopid. why would i go out of my way to sleep on rocks and pee outside? didn't my ancestors spend millions of years evolving so i could have running water and body pillows and great lash mascara?
similarly, why would i want to "relax" by working like a peasant woman in the potato fields when i could be sitting with my feet up, lemonade in hand, doing the sunday crossword? or napping? isn't this why the gentry used to have serfs?
and now i must go pluck pine needles from my flesh. (i just removed the christmas tree toppers from our window box. hey, it snowed last week – they still looked plausible.)
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