I know. You're getting tired of me. "Isn't this A Tale of Two Teenagers?" you're saying. "Well then, where on earth is Number One?"
The answer is: New York. I think. Katie remains off-island, but I believe she is done with History Day and exploring the Big Apple. Hopefully she gets a bite in for me too. (On a completely unrelated side note, does anyone know why it's called that?) Anyway, I've got my fingers crossed that we'll hear from her soon so that we fulfill our name and destiny. Plus, I miss her and it'd be nice to know she was alive.
In any case, today is The Day. The one I've been waiting for. It's important. I just can't remember why. Oh, that's right, Thursday is when Mentalist reruns are on. Highlight of my week, right there. My life is chockfull of purpose. And excitement. Today I found out that Up was on Netflix instant-watch and I jumped up and down.
I need a life. Thing is, Costco doesn't carry them and that's where I shop. I should start going to Walmart.
Actually, I'm having a lovely (if uneventful) break. I go to bed whenever I want, wake up whenever I want, and rag on my dad to get some Haagendaz (have we talked about Haagendaz yet? We should.) Sometimes I go days without having a conversation with anyone outside my family, but that's OK, because they're good conversationalists.
Today my dad had this brilliant idea.
Dad's brilliant idea: I take a rocky, currently purposeless section of our backyard and put my signature on it, because "the yard is a family affair." He told me this was an invitation, unless I didn't want to do it, in which case it was an assignment.
I've taken on the project, because I know I'll feel like a sullen, door-slamming, eye-rolling teenager if I don't. Thing is, my mom
is a master gardener. She is an artist. Our garden has become her masterpiece, with dabs of color throughout the traditionally lush green that's faded a bit from the recent drought. When my mom is stressed, tired or angry, into the garden she goes pulling weeds, trimming and once hacking up our lemon tree (She said that it make it healthier, but the tree just looks sad. And we aren't going to get as many lemons this year. I've forgiven her, but it took me a few minutes.) Gardening is therapy for my mom, among other things. I've had a theory for a long time that everyone has a need to create something. Our garden, the backyard especially, is my mom's creation.
When my family first moved into this house fourteen or thirteen years ago, our yard was plain dirt and a barren mango tree. Now it still has the mango tree which has reluctantly surrendered fruit from time to time, and it also has this
and this
and this.
You can see why I'm a little intimidated. I don't really think my signature needs to be on our garden. The flourishes that come out of my mom's pen are obviously satisfactory.
Maybe I'll stick with herbs. How hard can that be? A little mint here, some basil there. And maybe ferns. Ferns seem like the microwave pizza of gardening. Or instant oatmeal. Just add water.
As long as plants don't turn out to be like goldfish. I've never been able to keep a goldfish alive for longer than two days. Once my friend asked me to watch her's while she went on vacation. I told her that would be fine, but if she left it with me it would be dead when she got back. She didn't believe me. I am really, really sorry about Goldie, Allison. But I did warn you.
Please let ferns be like instant oatmeal.
Over.
I need a life. Thing is, Costco doesn't carry them and that's where I shop. I should start going to Walmart.
Actually, I'm having a lovely (if uneventful) break. I go to bed whenever I want, wake up whenever I want, and rag on my dad to get some Haagendaz (have we talked about Haagendaz yet? We should.) Sometimes I go days without having a conversation with anyone outside my family, but that's OK, because they're good conversationalists.
Today my dad had this brilliant idea.
Dad's brilliant idea: I take a rocky, currently purposeless section of our backyard and put my signature on it, because "the yard is a family affair." He told me this was an invitation, unless I didn't want to do it, in which case it was an assignment.
I've taken on the project, because I know I'll feel like a sullen, door-slamming, eye-rolling teenager if I don't. Thing is, my mom
is a master gardener. She is an artist. Our garden has become her masterpiece, with dabs of color throughout the traditionally lush green that's faded a bit from the recent drought. When my mom is stressed, tired or angry, into the garden she goes pulling weeds, trimming and once hacking up our lemon tree (She said that it make it healthier, but the tree just looks sad. And we aren't going to get as many lemons this year. I've forgiven her, but it took me a few minutes.) Gardening is therapy for my mom, among other things. I've had a theory for a long time that everyone has a need to create something. Our garden, the backyard especially, is my mom's creation.
When my family first moved into this house fourteen or thirteen years ago, our yard was plain dirt and a barren mango tree. Now it still has the mango tree which has reluctantly surrendered fruit from time to time, and it also has this
and this
and this.
You can see why I'm a little intimidated. I don't really think my signature needs to be on our garden. The flourishes that come out of my mom's pen are obviously satisfactory.
Maybe I'll stick with herbs. How hard can that be? A little mint here, some basil there. And maybe ferns. Ferns seem like the microwave pizza of gardening. Or instant oatmeal. Just add water.
As long as plants don't turn out to be like goldfish. I've never been able to keep a goldfish alive for longer than two days. Once my friend asked me to watch her's while she went on vacation. I told her that would be fine, but if she left it with me it would be dead when she got back. She didn't believe me. I am really, really sorry about Goldie, Allison. But I did warn you.
Please let ferns be like instant oatmeal.
Over.
No comments:
Post a Comment