{I am going to uncharacteristically swear like a sailor in this post; consider it thoroughly influenced by dear Finny, the gardener who got me interested in all this mother of sweet holy moses nonsense in the first place. If you don’t like the f-bomb, take cover.}

A friday night that started with the best of intentions

Friday night started so well

Planting calendar

Welcome to the last 18 hours of my life. It started out well: new seeds from the Tucson trip, nice glass of Friday-night pink girly wine, and a lovely bag of succulent and cacti clippings a friend passed along. I am just adventurous enough in the garden that a sack of new plants makes my heart leap with happiness.

Bag of cuttings

The bag of succulents

Pretty variety

Weird cactus


The sack did include some gems, but after going through my gardening stuff — I realized I needed potting soil. So, the wine waited and off I went to the nursery, where I also picked up a new hose and more worms for the composter. I came home, loaded up the new “soaker” hose and set it out on the back patio to get the earth drenched while I slept. (Couldn’t drink the wine because by the time I’d gotten home, a dozen bugs had decided to take a swim in my pink Friday treat. ) There were four large oleanders on the back section of my patio that I wanted to remove and knew I wouldn’t be able to touch them without getting the earth muddy beforehand. I turned on the hose, went out for a movie, got up and went for a hike this morning and came back to find the new hose in pieces.

Potting table, after

Soaker hoses? Fragile pieces of shit. Save your $15. Really mad I decided to buy gardening supplies in lieu of the basket at this point. The worms on the other hand? Happy little suckers and currently chomping away, making lovely compost. The soil I put to use and now have a pretty potting table full of gorgeous succulents. So, at this point I’m still in a pretty good mood.

Garden of Evil

Enter the oleanders, or as I will now refer to them — the plants of doom, sent by the devil, to torture me.

Three hours later

Quite some time of heavy shoveling later, I’d removed two of these fuckers and my arms look like I’m a heroin addict. I’ve got red, bumpy scratches all over my upper body and the wee bit of my lower legs that were exposed. Of course because the plants of doom are poisonous, these are puffy, ugly scratches morphing into welts. And really? There are only two things that could have made me grouchier.

1. Finding a snake in my garden.

Same snake, same fear


Snake size, by comparison

{HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. It is a baby and let me tell you, I killed it and then taunted the mother to come forward and show her evil face. Actually, I got the heebie geebies and screamed like I was losing my mind. And the snake may have been a little small, but a SNAKE nonetheless. Snakes are one of my greatest fears in life. Not happy at this point. And don’t dare think this is a worm and I don’t know better; it had a little head and black flickering tongue.}

Fucking oleanders

2. Having two rather strong neighbors walk by and each say, “Wow. That looks like hard work. Good luck with that.” as I am bending over, pulling and prodding with all of my might. Lend a hand? Nah. Make a stupid comment and walk by? Yes. Say it with me: Douche bags! Really not happy at this point.

See you later, plants of doom

Rather exhausted and trying to figure out how to cover my wounds. I should probably wash my mouth out with soap at the same time. Oh, and in 6 months, if all goes well — I’ll have some pumpkins, sunflowers and maybe a tomatillo or two.  In the meantime, really hoping there isn’t a mama snake.