Scenes from a garden

So I haven't posted anything in well over a week. I can explain. I've been spending most of my free time trying to make my back yard look presentable, and less like the overgrown crackhouse lawn it was starting to resemble. I like gardening, really I do. Except for a couple of things. The sun, which, ironically, makes me wilt like a delicate flower. And the bugs. I know no one, except four year old boys and medical examiners on crime shows, really LOVES bugs, but I dislike them immensely. Creepy multi-legged bastards. Actually -  I've changed my mind ; I fucking hate gardening.

I started off well, sometime in mid to late April.  Did some raking. Bagged some leaves. Used a snow shovel to put leaves in bags. What? It was still leaning against my house. Oh, like yours was tucked away in the shed come March 21st. Liars.

May 6 - May 27:  Pretty much no progress.  I started so well, then rain happened. And season finales. I did buy an eensy iron gnome for the garden. So not no progress, exactly. Gnome progress. Also manage to actually poke self in eye with sharp stick. Buy some flowers. Hope they don't die before I get a chance to kill them.

Notice bees buzzing around giant bush at edge of deck are abnormally large. Remind self to google actual geographical range of "Africanized bees" later.

May 27-29: Sun, finally. Need to finish pruning, raking, pulling and generally tidying up nature. Curse self for not searching "lawn boy" on Kijiji.

Mother, a prolific gardener, visits and asks why I haven't done more weeding. I tell her it's because I wasn't sure which ones were weeds. She looks at me the way she did when I told her I was quitting band. Not having grandchildren yet she's accepted, but me not knowing astilbe from rag weed gets me a throat clear and judgement face. But she did arrive with loads of my favourite flowers, so judge away, Mommy.

Buy more flowers. Try to determine if 100 litres of potting soil is enough. Why is it measured in litres? I'm not planning on drinking it.

Despite wearing awesome bug-be-gone bracelets, get a bug bite. On ass. Gardening in ripped to shit jeans not the smartest idea I've ever had. (Mother's note: "I told you so").

May 31 - Finish rest of "clean up" before the (allegedly) fun flower planting stuff. Involves digging around in crevices in rock wall. Wonder if bats spend their downtime sleeping in rock walls?  Become convinced attack by sleep deprived bats is imminent.

Hear rustling in overgrown area at back of property. Do we have badgers? Brandish rake.

June 1 - Inform woman at gardening centre that "Calibrachoa and Million Bells are actually the same thing". Feel smug. Buy more flowers.

 Use plant stake and twine to tie up droopy bush. Giggle to self while doing so.

Take break when SPF 60 ends up in eye. Between sharp stick and sun protection, gardening had now resulted in vision impairment.

Call mother to announce "The rhododendrons are coming! The rhododendrons are coming!" Am like Paul Revere, in pink Crocs.

Put flowers in planters. Try and craft interesting yet harmonious colour combinations. Abandon this plan when back starts to ache, firing plants into pots willy nilly, aesthetics be damned. Wonder if this is how some of the outfits at Wal-mart happen? 

June 2 - Salamanders are cute. Slugs the size of a Vienna sausage are not. Buy more flowers.

June 3 - Buy new sandals. What? I have enough damn flowers.

June 4 - Try to describe the type of ivy I'm looking for to garden centre guy who, despite all signage to the contrary, does not appear to actually be "Farmer Clem". Neither of us can remember the name, but he knows what I'm talking about and no, they don't have any. Is it German? No. It's sort of like Swedish, but not. Wonder if there's such a thing as Austrian ivy.  It would be quite robust, but try to goose the housekeeper every time you turned your back.  Buy more flowers.

June 6 - I think I'm done! Dirt under fingernails may be permanent, as is back ache. But when I come up my steps after work, and everything is blooming, and smells all flowery, and there are what surely must be ten thousand different colours on my deck to greet me, it's all worth it. Except for that bug bite on my ass...