Walk of Shame

No, it’s not what you’re thinking. Sorry.

I’m a med student, remember? And one with no game at that, at least at the moment, so get your mind out of whatever seedy locale it’s inhabiting, and let’s talk about anaerobes.

I wish it were a dirty little secret that I have zero horticultural follow-through. I love looking at plants and flowers, I do. And, before my cat started eating my houseplant, I was even keeping one of those alive. It’s not that I lack the proverbial green thumb--it’s that I lack the discipline to water, weed, prune, nurture, and otherwise induce plant life to thrive. I’m a plant killer. There, I said it. It’s not like they just die despite my best efforts...it’s that at some point I completely cease to make an effort. If plants were animals, I’d be brought up on charges by now. Thankfully, the last in my series of “nannies” who was essentially a live-in grandmother managed to drill through my thick skull that pets were a) precious, and b) had no way to fend for themselves (since we so blithely robbed them of natural instincts and/or opportunities) and so were always priority number one in terms of chores. Dishes can wait, and laundry will still be doable tomorrow--Spot cannot wait. Period. Alas, I had real pets growing up and never learned to think of my plants as “Spot”. So, when my mother decided I needed flowers and a tree for my patio, I was hesitant. But you’ve not met my mother, so let it suffice to say that saying no more than once wasn’t going to do me any good. If she wanted to envision my front porch with Bougainvillea, then I was damn well getting some.

It was lovely while it lasted. Really. Alas, not only the Bougainvillea, but also the beautiful flowering vine-tree-thingy and the two long beds of...Impatiens, maybe?...have been dead for a long time. Months. And they’ve been sitting on my front patio this whole time. Ugly as all hell, and the planters accumulating a pond-scum like substance that I’m certain would have spontaneously generated some nitrogen-based life forms if I’d just been allowed to leave it there for another year or two. Shockingly, the homeowner’s association found this....distasteful. So, I got an email from my landlord today--an apologetic email--asking would I please be so kind as to do something with the rotting carcasses of my plants? So sorry for the hassle. I can’t imagine why the homeowner’s association is so unreasonable. (For the record, they never NEVER contacted me directly. Just my out-of-state landlords. How delightfully passive-aggressive.)

As the wave of shame and guilt receded, I promptly sent back an email saying it was as good as done. Truthfully, I’ve been meaning to get around to that for ages. It’s just that I so rarely go in and out of my front door and past my front patio, so the evidence of murder was easy to ignore. Plus, I’m a very busy person. Right? Yeah, sure. I keep telling myself that...just not to my face in the mirror. Trash day is on Monday, so it really could have waited until tomorrow, but knowing it had to get done this weekend, it was going to haunt me. So, I drove home instead of going straight to where I’d planned to spend my evening. I rolled up my jeans, and put on my Wellies (yes, they have heels...let’s just move on, shall we?) and my semi-gross gym fleece and those yellow dish gloves (and a ball cap for the charade of anonymity), grabbed some big black trash bags, and went out to tackle the beast. Beasts, plural, actually. I’m not sure if you’ve ever considered how to get a six foot dead tree-vine-thingy plus its planter and wooden “posture” stake into a small garbage bin, but it’s not a trivial problem. Add to that the fact that my garage and my patio are on opposite sides of my house, and there was no way I was dragging carcasses through my house with my kitten in tow, and you’ve got a dilemma. As it turns out, the tree wasn’t nearly so bad as draining the swamp out of the planters. Having passed the bacteria section of micro, I’m confident in my assessment that the malodorous aspect of the task was attributable to anaerobes. If you’ve not had the pleasure of sticking your face in a culture full of them, I’ll try to explain the sensory experience of emptying my planters: you know that python in the Everglades that exploded after trying to eat an alligator? Imagine that, plus some swamp water, decomposing in a horse stall that hasn’t been mucked out for a solid week or two, and you’ll begin to get the gist. I’ll not expound on the details, except to say I hope there’s not a follow-on post about being fined for illegal dumping of potting soil in the community landscaping. However, the only way to get this embarrassment off my patio was to go around the block, and get my garbage bin. Yes, it got hauled up the stairs to my patio. And hauling it back down with an extra 30 pounds of plant carcass, potting soil, and planters...and then the roll back to my garage, when there didn’t seem to be any sound in the neighborhood except the harsh rattle of the wheels on concrete...me still in my wellies, yellow dish gloves, fleece and cap...yes, my friends, that was the walk of shame.

I really, really hope my garbage bin empties completely on Monday and nothing gets stuck. That tree planter was kind of a snug fit, and if it doesn’t come out, I’ll be haunted forever. Not to mention being completely unable to put any other rubbish in my bin. On the other hand, it would probably serve me right. Plant killer purgatory. Sigh.

Comments

[Barbara O'Brien]

Dear CC Blog,

I just have a quick question for you but couldn't find an email so had to resort to this. I am a progressive blogger. Please email me back at barbaraobrien@maacenter.org when you get a chance. Thanks.

Barbara