Mood: energetic
Topic: Geekery
Surprise: I'm not about to bitch about something. Well, yes I am. But it's something I'm actually sort of excited about, while simultaneously kicking myself and railing against my own folly.
Y'see, they have been painting our townhome complex. To that end, we had to rip out all the climbing ivy rooted in our yard which has been so tenderly overgrowing our next door neighbor's wall for all these years so they could, well, paint the wall. It wasn't going to be so good if they just painted over the ivy, you know? So out it came, by the roots.
Over in the other side of our yard, beyond the sandbox and the three bird feeders (and bearing in mind that our yard is the size of a paper towel and most of that is paved), is the pitiful shadow of the garden I so ambitiously put in five years ago, when we were newlyweds and I didn't have all these kids running amok. It's long since gone to seed. A xeriscape, Ben called it, and that is true only if xeriscape is a euphemism for exactly like a hideously overgrown vacant lot, except located unhappily within the confines of my yard. So, pregnant or not, I must undertake some serious emergency gardening, because otherwise I am going to burn down my backyard.
So, my Bright Idea: I am going to turn my little yard into a bird haven, populated with native plants and, in addition to the feeders, such bird-friendly equipment as water supply and maybe even a nesting box. It's a plan that's been percolating in my little pea brain for quite a while, and probably the house finches are to blame. But the idea has taken hold of me, and now, damn it, it's like a case of the herpes. I will never get rid of it.
Of course, it's going to be a major pain in my ass, what with all the research required (So Cal is full of imports of every kind, from flora and fauna to automobiles to registered voters, and for this purpose I must make careful distinctions), not to mention the actual purchase of the plants, the anguished cries of my husband as I sign off on the sales slip, and the hassle of getting my family out of my hair long enough to actually put the stuff in. (That is, assuming I'm physically able to do more than point and say please by that late in the pregnancy.) But I'm a girl on a mission.
Please, there is something wrong with me. The last thing I need is more stuff to nurture; but God help me, I can't stop myself. Hello, my name is Gretchen, and I'm an incurable mommy masochist. Excuse me, I'll go chain myself to a fence and beat myself up now. Just as soon as I figure out which native shrub to plant against the eastern wall.
Posted by Gretchen
at 3:24 PM PDT