After a few rocky months of uncertainty and disharmony, Boy and I have suddenly found our way back to happy love zone. This means that we’re again spending most evenings and weekends at home, rather than out and about. (This is also why I have no recent love games stories.) This has also been the perfect impetus for one of my latest (excessively numerous) hobbies: gardening. (I’ve also been on a massive DIY binge, but that’s another story for my next entry.) Plants, as it turns out, really liven up and boost the lovely factor of a home.
They’re also a lot more labor-intensive than you’d think.
My collection so far consists of three herb plants (rosemary, thyme, and basil), six types of succulents (a black rose, a jellybean plant, some variety of echeveria, a panda plant, leaves of a jade, and my favorite, bear paws), and a tree left behind by the prior tenant of my apartment.
I have a beautiful bay windowsill and plenty of southeasterly sun pouring into my apartment all day, so naturally, I thought plant-raising would be a cinch. Three months into being a plant “mom” — fawning, petting, watering, repotting, and feeding my babies — I realize I’m an idiot. In fact, all my plants have done anything but grow into robust, hardy green troopers.