Share your efforts at something you don’t think you do well.
There is no debate here. I won’t try to defend myself, I won’t argue, I won’t come up with excuses. I not only don’t think I do this well, I whole-heartedly admit that I am absolutely terrible. Given my lineage, I should be practically prodigal, it should be in my blood, coursing through my veins, sweating out of my pores. And yet, there is no denying that I am simply horrible.
I kill plants.
My mom’s gardens are gorgeous. Mature and full and weed-free. Her yard is so beautiful, in fact, my sister is getting married there next year. She has a nack for it. A nack, the patience, the knowledge, and the passion. All of which she neglected to pass down to me.
I put in a valiant effort at the beginning of the season. One of the few garden-y things I actually do enjoy is planning out the garden. What colours to go with this season, arranging the boxes and baskets, finding which species looks good with each other. I only mildly hate planting the flowers. I can almost tolerate the work involved in watering and dead-heading and whatnot. And I really do enjoy having a beautiful garden.
My problem is remembering to do all that. Generally I don’t remember to start the garden in, what, May (that’s when you’re supposed to start, right?). I don’t remember to water until the situation has turned dire. I don’t remember to ask anyone to water them if I’m gone for an extended period of time. I don’t remember to dead-head until most of the heads are, in fact, dead. I don’t remember that at the end of the season, you should remove all the decrepit looking plants so that in the spring you’re not left to pull out rotten mush-balls of decomposing leaves and stems. I just can not remember to do all the work involved in having a garden.
I kill plants. It’s…kind of what I do.