April 19, 2012

I'll confess

I'm not a gardener. In fact, I'm the antithesis of a gardener. My favorite pug rescue has a Flower Power fundraiser and me, in my typical deluded fashion thought to myself,"who says you can't plant a garden!"

I'll admit, this was after a RedBull or two so I was clearly over zealous in this thought process. Feeling all holy and charitable, I *almost* couldn't wait for these magical blossoms to arrive. Well, Fed Ex arrived and my ego was still fairly balls to the wall. I borrowed a shovel and changed into a tank top,jeans and Vera Wang sandals and the nonsensical belief that I had this shit under control. Seriously, if 80 year old women do this for fun, surely I can too. Right?


I went outside with shovel in hand and realized quickly I'd have to perform manual labor. While I excel at so much in day to day life, I will never accept that I'm capable of manual labor. Bribing myself with wine, I dug *A* hole. Good gawd, this is taxing and I'm parched....where's the wine?

I dug one more small hole, this dumb ass shovel flipped back and got dirt all over my mother effin Vera Wang sandal and I look down just in time to see a gdayum worm and a scary as hell centipede. Um, f*ck this noise. Do I appear to you like I require a garden to fulfill some whimsical dream? Why no, no I do not.

Suddenly my detailed dreams of a tiny "pug garden" are dashed in my vain attempt to stay dirt free. All the while, my flat faced crew of untrustables stand at the door and watch, toss each others salad and lick the damn window.

Long story short, these magical flowers are planted, I'm slightly dirty and super thirsty for a multitude of alcoholic beverages. Please don't expect some flowing garden of sweet scented loveliness, at best I'll spray you with febreeze just before you walk outside,deal?

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