Before I tell you why you should never gift me with a living piece of foliage, I want to let you know that my friend Joan Defers has taken the plunge into self-publishing with her first novella, Like Sugar. It’s available now on Amazon, so you should get yourself a copy to help support her wine habit. Yes, I know she has one. It’s the only reason we writers even write in the first place–because of how much we like to drink. Or is that just me?

So. Last weekend out of the clear blue Husband asks if I wanted to have a garden this year. Why yes, dear, I would love to have a garden full of plump, healthy vegetables (and technically fruits too, since there’d be tomatoes and maybe a watermelon or two). I just don’t want to be responsible for the feeding and watering and weeding and de-bugging of these plump, healthy vegetables and fruits.  Because plants hate me.

I just looked at him like he’d lost his mind, then pointed to the live (but barely) plant in the corner of the room his mother bought me for my birthday. “Oh, right. What was I thinking?” he said. “You kill plastic plants.”

He’d warned his mother not to buy me the plant. That it was cruel and unusual punishment to foist me upon living vegetation. But she didn’t listen, and so this lovely, robust, bright green…thing…came to live with us. And immediately started to wither because I forgot to water it. Or it didn’t like the spot I parked it in. Too much sun, not enough sun, I don’t know. Maybe the cat used it as a litter box or the dog farted on it. For fuck sake, stop feeding him cheese!

And to make it that much sadder, it’s a Peace Lily. O.o

The only plant to ever miraculously survive around me was this masochistic rose bush I once had. The more I whacked on it, the better it liked it. Afterward it would erupt in giant pink blossoms. So in reality I’m like the Sadist Gardener or something. I should trademark it. Or someone should write THAT book. Virgin plants and the gazillionaire horticulturist who deflowers them with his mighty “pruner” in his penthouse arbor made of platinum. I’d buy it in a second.

To be honest, I don’t understand how I managed to raise a kid up to be this fully-formed and highly-functional human being. He’s really a freak of nature because he’s brilliant and funny and HE CAN’T BE MINE, can he?

Anyway, Husband felt sorry for the plant and decided to adopt it himself in order to save it from certain death. He watered it religiously, fertilized and plucked and pruned, put it in a spot where he thought it would get the “correct” amount of sunlight, and guess what? It’s still dying.

And of course, OF COURSE, there’s something wrong with THE PLANT. It can’t be his expert greenery skills. Oh, no. It can’t be that our house is just the place plants go to die like a Horticulture Hospice.

Want some ketchup for that crow, honey?

No, there won’t be a garden planted at our house. We’ll just rely on the people who know what they’re doing.

In other news, I finished the rewrite of Heart Trouble!! And Sooper-Brainy-Editor-Lady was right, which is why she’s the editor and I’m the writer. It’s sooo much better than before, an additional eight-thousand words thicker, and I’m really, really happy with it. Now to get through edits and unleash it onto the world for consumption. So in a way, maybe us writerly types are gardeners after all.

Last thing I want to leave you with is some new music I discovered this week, Lord Huron. New to me, at least, although their debut album only came out in October of last year. My favorite song of theirs is Ends of the Earth, but the video for Lonesome Dreams is kind of epic. Go forth and have a listen, then have a wonderful weekend!

Jenny