Secret Garden

It should come as a surprise to absolutely no one that I did not inherit my mother’s green thumb. Plants come to my house to die. My home is Stalag 17 for plants.

Charlie, however, takes after his father, who I’m certain planted his garden over a radioactive waste dump last year, and grew a zucchini as big as a cudgel.

Club Zucchini
Photo shamelessly stolen from my friend’s Facebook timeline.

Usually, we’ll do our own zucchini, and some green beans, peppers, tomatoes, eggplants, and last year, as a total vanity project, a whole box of pumpkins.

They pumpkins all got eaten by bores.

It was very sad.

This year, the garden has had a slow start. Just didn’t get things started in time.

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Sad, nearly-barren garden boxes, with ANnie being of no help whatsoever.

Charlie is dropping in some Aloha Pepper seeds, from a couple of weird ones he picked up from Aldi the other day.

I have a feeling this garden is going to be the laziest garden in Apiary history.

Even lazier than the one pepper plant we accidentally grew with one of our succulents because Charlie cut peppers too aggressively one night at dinner, and a seed landed in the planter.

Until I have more updates in the garden, enjoy these photos from gardens past.

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NaBloPoMo’13: Day 3, La Blanchisseuse

Sundays are housework day around The Apiary, as I am usually too lazy to do laundry, iron or vacuum during the week.  So, if I’m going at a pretty good clip, I can actually get five loads (workout clothes, whites, colors, towels, and delicates) from laundry 30-gallon-garbage-can to back in dressers and closets in 16 hours; as well as vacuuming the house and getting the ironing done as well.

It used to take me a lot longer to iron, doing Charlie’s work shirts and pants, as well as whatever ironable I had. But there is definitely truth into practice making perfect, and I can usually bang out the ironing much faster than I used to. I’m one of the few people on the planet who doesn’t mind ironing: I enjoy the careful repetitive motion of it, and I’m of the mindset that no amount of shower-humidity or Downy wrinkle-release will make up for what an iron can do. Martha Stewart is very proud of me, I’m guessing — I’ve never actually asked.

Today was no different. Laundry and ironing went faster than I thought it would, so I changed the sheets on the large guest bedroom bed, too. Now, they have nice, soft flannel, as well as the addition of a tootsie heater for guests. I find little else as jarring as sliding your feet into ice cold sheets when it’s cold out.

Of course, this bed-sheet-updating dovetails with the arrival of Pottery Barn’s winter catalog and my new obsession with getting the linens in our house as fluffy and almost-pornographically-sumptuous as in the pages of those catalogs.

As it turns out, and what I suspected was true, it takes some finagling and a little cambric chicanery to get a home bed to look like a hotel or catalog bed. I’m just going to have to split the difference and overstuff the duvet covers and get bolsters, because there is no way in hell  I am going to get hospital corners on a double-quilt-top Queen sized mattress without slipping a disk and ending up in traction.

This is clearly a sign that I am growing up, because I’m learning to pick my housekeeping battles.

If I Don’t Cut Myself Short, I’ll Ramble for Hours…

The short version of the story is that we got the house.

The slightly longer version of the story is that ​we signed the paperwork in the zero hour. I got a call on Friday at 5:15 that I needed to hustle out to the west side of town to sign paperwork and transfer title. I fought Friday rush hour gridlock (it’s called 480 because it’s mean FOR me to DRIVE 80). I had to wire the down payment on Monday morning.

​But it’s ours. We own this thing, this strange piece of real property. It’s the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned, and the loan is more than what Charlie and I took out for 8 years of combined undergrad, plus 4 years of his master’s degree.

The next month and a half before we move (since Charlie cannot leave his lease until June) is going to be full of hole-patching, wall-painting, appliance-installing, and bathroom cleaning. At some point, I do need to get serious about packing my things and thinking about hiring a moving company. If I can at all avoid it, I’m going to rent a mid-sized UHaul to take all of my boxes (that don’t get moved on weekend trips) and then have professional movers move all of my big furniture. You can kiss my grits if you think I’m moving a queen-sized sleigh bed.​