I Blame The Neighborhood

Friday evening I arrived home from work to see that my pansies on the front step looked officially dead.

They were flopped over pathetically on the patio, for all appearances looking like a flower vampire had come along and drained the life right out of them.

I came into the house like a hurricane, dropping my purse and lunchbag, and running out the front door to grab them off the step. I left a bewildered Army Boy in my wake.

“Um, what’s going on?” was all he could manage, before I dashed into the kitchen to grab a trash bag (in case of spills) and container of lukewarm water.

“Come on, little pansies. Don’t die on me. I haven’t even had the chance to plant you and become a really bad Plant Mommy,” I coaxed. For the rest of the night, the pansies got watered in small amounts every couple of hours, and were kept in the living room overnight. I even confessed my guilt to Twitter.

By morning, one flat was looking decidedly perkier. Army Boy was questioning my sanity at this point, but I kept conversing with them as I put them out on the step to get some nice morning sun. I knew that it was touch-and-go with the second bunch, a dark purple variety that seemed to be having trouble holding their little pansy heads up.

That was the exact kick in the ass that I needed to persuade me that we needed to get our asses to Home Depot™ and spend the gift-card that Seth and Danielle had sent with their “New Home” card. (I love them, btw.) Army Boy doesn’t need to be convinced at all that a day in any hardware store is needed, so off we went.

With the purchase of some planters, gardening tools and potting soil, I was feeling infinitely more equipped to become a caretaker. In fact, I even felt the need to stop and adopt two more little cheerful pansies as we were walking through the garden center.

“Our planters won’t be full with what we’ve got… Do you mind if I pick up one or two more?” I pleaded with Army Boy. Sensing that he was possibly dealing with some sort of ovarian need to nurture, he quickly agreed and helped me pick out two hardy-looking specimens.

As we meandered back through the store toward the checkout, I was entranced with all of the possibilities that were presenting themselves for our yard.

“Oooo! I think we need a bird-feeder to hang in one of the trees. Don’t you think so? Or maybe a birdhouse! Yes! That would be perfect, back in the back corner… OMG they have bulbs for dahlias. You know how those are my favorites. Do you think I could try growing a couple? Not a lot, just four or so. I don’t think I could handle killing any more wee plants this year. Don’t little to that, little Pansy Children. I didn’t kill any. Yet.”

Through my whole rambling spiel, Army Boy regarded me with quiet amusement, seeming to enjoy the fact that, for once, I was the one totally engrossed with the home improvement store. I couldn’t help but notice that he was trying not to laugh.

“WHAT?!” I asked defensively.

“You know what you sound like….” He started.

“No sir, I do not. Please enlighten me.”

“I just think you may be spending a bit too much time with our elderly neighbors,” he volunteered.

“Just because I am concerned with the beautification of OUR YARD, and think that a birdhouse and some bulbs might be nice OMG-I’m-turning-into-my-Grandmother….”

“They had some of those motorized scooter carts over at the exit. Do you want me to go get one-“

His sentence was cut off because Little Miss Flower Princess had control of the cart and strategically rammed him with it.

After the fact, I’m forced to reflect and admit that I may have a problem.

But the Pansies are all planted, and seem to be enjoying their new homes immensely.

I may or may not have covered them with plastic bags to protect them from the cold, driving rain last night. It was supposed to be almost freezing! Come ON!



3 thoughts on “I Blame The Neighborhood

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