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I have a confession to make. I am not a “green” gardener.
No, if any color can be associated with my pitiful horticultural pursuits, it would have to be burned-out brown or withered-and-grizzled grey.
It doesn’t matter if I prepare the soil.
And fertilize.
And follow the nursery’s instructions down to the last detail.
I can kill all manner of vegetables and fruits faster than moviegoers can flee a Pauly Shore film.
It’s reached the point where the plants and shrubs mock me when they see me approach.
“Here comes black-thumbed Thusie!” they whisper.
Yes, they lisp.
It makes it even more painful.
You should have seen me plant the tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers and carrots my husband insisted I start from seeds.
My back ached. The wind whipped my hair.
And the organic farming militant to whom I’m married stood there smiling and saying, “Look at you! You’re getting the gardening bug!”
Just between us, he’s getting the gardening bug. I put the biggest one I found under his pillow.
To be honest, it’s a miracle any of the seeds sprouted. I mean, I once murdered an entire packet of sea monkeys and a Chia Pet, so I figured my prospects for growing produce were limited.
And then I couldn’t believe Mr. “Let’s Live off the Land” expected me to transplant the seedlings myself.
If he thinks my feeble attempt at a Victory Garden means I’m giving up my supermarket bonus cards you can bet he’ll be a vegetable before I ever grow one.
Just to be clear, my better half is a green gardener whose vegetable patch bursts with the kind of succulent selection one finds in the best produce departments. He’s also a bit of a zealot who thinks I should embrace “the sense of satisfaction that comes from growing one’s own fresh, healthy food.”
Puhleeze.
My idea of satisfaction is hitting Starbucks with the girls and scoring a pair of Jimmy Choos at DSW on the same day.
I really don’t see how raising my own arugula will give me that kind of rush.
Clearly, I’m no one to ask for gardening tips. Green or otherwise.
But I take great pride in looking the part and protecting the earth when I set out to unintentionally kill my plants.
Starting in February, I scour eco-minded magazines and websites for the latest earth-friendly fashions.
I pick up soy-based track pants and hoodies and the occasional pair of posh hemp boots that are simply too cute to pass up.
Then I move on to organic cotton capris and T-shirts, shorts and vegan-approved slip-ons that look cute whether I’m lunching at a chic café or being forced to harvest corn.
One of my favorite green gardening accessories is an organic cotton tote bag I bought awhile back.
For starters, it’s flamingo pink and it looks fabulous with my 90% organic cotton floral capris.
(The other 10% is some Mother Nature no-no like lycra or spandex; bad for the earth, but good for my girth.)
It’s also got ten pockets and can hold gardening gloves, a wide-brimmed birdwatcher hat, sun block, a hand fork and trowel, plus shears and clippers.
And maybe someday, when its compartments aren’t crammed with the contents of an entire makeup counter, it will.
I’m also a sucker for stylish, sustainable eyewear. Sadly, they’re all pricey as Prada’s. Sadder still, they make me look like The Fly.
Poor eco-couture eyewear selections aside, I’m proud to have fashioned a wardrobe of unrefined fabrics.
I’ll never be one of those people with an organic knack for gardening, but if you need help in the green dressing department, let me know.
I’m a natural.
"He's getting the gardening bug under his pillow..." lol! Love it!
This is fantastic! You had me at Starbucks and Jimmy Choos :)