Eccentric flower lady

Everyone who knows me knows how passionate I am about my flowers. Yes, I talk to them, or rather I breathe on them because I once read that it gives them an extra jolt of carbon dioxide. I'm rewarded for my somewhat (okay, weird) efforts by flowers that flourish and bloom prolifically right up until fall when I have to rip them out by their roots and sob uncontrollably as I dispose of them in the compost pile. I'm almost sobbing now just thinking about it.

Anyway, I hate it when any of them don't survive. It kills me. I feel like I failed them and I am plagued with guilt. A week or so ago when a late frost gripped Chickpea in its cruel mitts, I lost some of my impatiens and I was crushed.

This is going somewhere, stay with me.

I've learned through my years of gardening that weeds have the ability to mimic certain plants. In essence, they fool me into thinking they're a perennial rather than a weed. This happened last year. I noticed a perennial that I didn't remember planting, so I figured I just didn't remember planting it. I watered it and petted it and breathed on it, and fed it Miracle-Gro Bloom Booster, but it never bloomed. It just kept getting bigger and branchier, mimicking its neighbor the red flowered perennial and undoubtedly laughing with its fellow weeds saying, "What a clueless chump! And she calls herself a gardener!" Finally I realized I had been deceived and I ripped it out, scolded it profusely, and threw it in the trash. Fucking cocky weeds.

I think the same thing is happening this year but I'm not sure. I'm waiting for one of the perennials to bloom and fear it may be a cousin of the weed I murdered last year. Maybe it has appeared out of revenge. Maybe it's a human-eating weed. Maybe when I lean down to breathe on it, it will emit toxic fumes that immediately asphyxiate me, or blind me, or cause paralysis or baldness.

Maybe I'd better go back to bed.

~ ~ ~
PJ
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