I bought a bunch of plants yesterday in spite of the fact that I have a black thumb: when I go into a garden store, the plants all scream cause they know they’re gonna die. But I bought plants, plants that whimpered in the car all the way home. Yesterday.
Today I must plant them in containers. No, not the ground, either the ground around here hates plants or I’m inept. Since weeds are flourishing everywhere I look, it must be me, so I’m going to hedge my bets with containers and container soil and ceramic watering spikes and plant food spikes.
Except it’s noon, and I’m still in bed typing, while the plants are outside, container-less except for the ones they came in, probably dying of thirst and cursing my name. I’m starting to think this problem might apply to more than my garden ineptitude. Like writing. And cleaning. And crochet. I’m hell on wheels on planning, I make GREAT plans, but then it gets to the action part and . . .
So I’m using you all to guilt myself into container gardening. Well, not gardening, that implies I’m going to do more than sock them into containers and make sure the water bottles don’t run out. I know what real gardening is, it’s the stuff some of you talk about on here, those of you who know the names of the plants they have. (I’ve got some kind of aster, and a daisy-looking thing, and something I think is a mini-petunia, and then some other stuff . . . )
Look, I have to at least give them all a fighting chance. I’ll report back on Monday. Maybe add a picture today. Okay, that’s it, I’m going out there a failure and coming back . . . ready for lunch. Pray for the plants.