As someone who very recently professed that she not only wants to make babies with likes hardware stores and wants desperately to join a roller derby, but also plans to learn how to properly box (the sport, Uncle Pervies, the SPORT), you may find the following statement to be at odds with who you think that I may be.
I’m heavily into gardening. (and not just bush-wacking. Which, dudes, have you SEEN that razor commercial where the unruly bushes turn into perfectly landscaped pseudo-crotches? There’s the classic triangle, the landing strip, and uh, I forgot the third one, but I don’t think it’s a Brazilian but maybe it should be. It’s almost obscene, yo.)
I know, I know, it’s about the least hardcore thing to profess a love for, but I figured since it’s Saturday and the only people bored enough to peruse my blog are a number of spam bots looking for “mommy punish my ass for i have been bad girl” (my search terms would likely turn your hair grey. They make me want to shower in a bucket of bleach), most of my readers will never see this statement. And if this turns the creepy spam bots away from me, well, the world will be a brighter place for us all.
Nor, I hope, will they see the longest run-on-sentence in history (see above).
I don’t grow, of course, vegetables, herbs or anything else that might serve much of a purpose. Partially because no one (besides ickle Aunt Becky) in Casa de la Sausage would dare TOUCH a vegetable, and partially because the rabbits eat the shit out of those fuckers. Also, I tend to use pretty heavy fertilizer on my roses, and I can’t grow stuff that you eat in that flower bed.
My post-miscarriage therapy for #2 was three rose bushes, all of which were sorely neglected when my last crotch parasite came on board last year, but ended up faring just fine. In fact, one of my roses deserves a prize or something for being just absurdly awesome. Also, it’s radioactive, which adds, I’m sure, to it’s awesome factor. Because radioactivity = RAD.
It’s a lucky break, I suppose, for The Daver that I enjoy getting down and dirty in the garden, as he has about as much interest in going outside as he does to get a hot coffee enema. He’s pasty, Internet, which is a kind, kind way of saying that he sort of combusts when in direct sunlight, and, as a geek, he’s pretty much allergic to anything that does not operate Linux.
I’ve been sort of on hiatus from the garden lately because the garden in August in the Midwest = wasps and wasps + Aunt Becky = anaphylaxis. I do have an epi-pen, well, I have two, but I’m under strict orders to call 911 after I administer the first dose. Apparently, many people need two doses. And you know what? I don’t really have the time, energy, or babysitters enough to manage an ambulance ride to the ER these days.
And the recovery? HA. I only wish I had the chance to think about laying around on a couch while my children sweetly served me grapes, while fanning me with large ficus branches. Because yeah, if I ACTUALLY laid down on the couch? Alex would try peeling out my eyeballs while Amelia teethed on my nose. Ben, though, I’m sure would be happy to feed me grapes in exchange for some Wii time because bribery is TOTALLY the way to go.
So, banished from my garden–I will be braving it tonight, Internet, which I am sure is very, very thrilling news, and you will be biting your nails on the edge of your seat just waiting for me to return to tell you of the weeding I did–I turned to the one thing I could safely do indoors: grow orchids.
Try as I might, there’s just no cool way to talk about how fucking wicked orchids are. Because nothing about the phrase ‘I repotted my orchid’ gives me anything other than Epic Dork Points. It’s almost as Full of The Dork as ‘I HAVE A GLANDULAR PROBLEM.’
Now if you’ll excuse me kindly, Internet, I’m off to do dorky things like….reprogram my Linux box* or um, play World of Warcraft* or uh….[insert dorky thing to do here*].
Please tell me that I’m not the only one with a dorky hobby. Please tell me that the lot of you aren’t sitting somewhere Worldly or Continental drinking fantastically chic drinks with very yuppie garnishes and being all cool and fanciful and shit while I muck around in the, well, MUCK, I guess you could really call it.
*I totally don’t do any of these things because I am NOT a dork. No matter what my orchids say. Or my roses. Or even my peonies, those wily bastards.