Beginning Gardener's Handblog

When people ask me what season it is, I tell them it is spring because it is! Spring has sprung, and lying is bad! People don’t often ask me what season it is because they usually know or they have access to that information themselves. But were they to ask me, I would be ready. Believe you me.

One of the things of spring™ is that plants start to blossom and bloom. What a cool thing to have happen! Mother Nature is a sultry minx. Because the weather is warmer, people also begin to plant gardens. This year, I wanted to be one of these strategically mentioned people. So I decided to plant something! Let me tell you about it!!

(end intro)

The first step, of course, was to have something to plant. Planting things doesn’t work well otherwise. Now, most people like to go buy seeds and grow things from the very beginning—they heard that it was a very good place to start. As I thought about what I could buy in its infant state and for whose preservation I would be responsible from that point on and on forever, I started to feel the existential dread of the fickleness and mystery of life. What would happen if… if I’m not good enough? What would happen if... I’m super scatterbrained (I am) and forget to put water on little dudes (I might [would])? I don’t know if I could live with myself if they couldn’t live with me. I’m very suggestible that way.

After a lot of deliberation, I decided to go with a plant that I couldn’t possibly kill. The type of plant I couldn’t possibly kill? One that was never alive.

My roommates and I bought a fake tree when we first moved into our current place to spice up the downstairs a little bit (wink wink). But when first downstairs roommate moved out and second downstairs roommate moved in, some of the spiciness left, and we also did some rearranging and there was no room for spicy fake tree (unwink). Spicy tree then needed a new home. And this fit my situation like sweet, sweet leather pants.

Now that I had something to plant, I needed something to plant it in. The fake tree came in a basket and fake soil, and I guess was kind of planted already in that sense. But to simplify things, I figured I should remove it. Turns out I couldn’t find a way to get it out of the basket simply, so of course I gave up and it was just going to stay there. I would just have to plant it in something bigger. Luckily, out front, we have something called the ground—right outside of our door, in fact. Hey and it's big. There's a little garden area that appeared to be in need of some spicing up and I had just the thing (winkles).

After clearing the spot, I borrowed a shovel from a homie and dug a holie big enough for a basket with a fake tree stuck forever inside of it. 

I then inserted the basket into the hole that had been prepared therefore. 

Once in to the right depth, I filled in the hole with ground powder, trying to cover most of the basket so as to look less like a ninny. I don't know. I'm sure the fake roots appreciate the privacy. 

Hey now, look here—

here we have ourselves a lovely ‘tree’ that’s going to look good 'n' dapper year round. Whilst everyone else’s gardens are dying painful deaths in the cold unyielding grasp of winter, this one will still be alive and vibrant–figuratively speaking. Check it out.

Envy of the neighbros, to be sure. A gleaming beacon of hope, shining bright in the bleakest of night. And one of the best things is that I very probably can't kill it, even with my fiercest, most concentrated negligence. And even as the neighbors’ real plants start to come back, they still have to live in constant fear of being responsible for the death of another living thing. They’ll spend countless hours outside caring for their plants while I’m sitting inside laughing at animal mashups, without a care in the world except what time I actually have to put pants on. Awesome. Man, gardening is great.

Constpotifyaytion

Sundays are chill, unless something makes them not chill. A few examples of things that could make them not chill are:

• heat
• catastrophes
• things that scare/disturb you a lot

Today Sunday was mostly chill. It was hot outside and in, but I am borrowing a fan, which creates anti-heat. No catastrophes have happened today, at least not in the direct vicinity of my bed, which is where most of my day has been wrought. Part of today Sunday was super unchill, and it involved the last thing on the list above.

The evening was winding down and I was relaxed on my bed. I am of the opinion that Sundays are great days for intellectual endeavors, generally being less filled with cockamamie distractions and responsibilities than other days. This rang true today, and I endeavored my intellect. When feeling intellectual and endeavorous, I am wont to listen to instrumental music. The reason for this is that I love music. A lot. However, when I listen to music that I know well and that has lyrics, it's hard for me not to get caught up in singing or analyzing the song that's playing. When I listen to calmer instrumental music, I can listen and enjoy it without getting too distracted. This allows me to focus fully on my endeavor.

Today, I put some Rachmaninoff on my Spotify. It was relaxing and intellectually stimulating, and fit the bill just right. As I focused on my endeavor, I kind of forgot about the music. I knew it was playing, but was so focused and had it quiet enough that it didn't register in my mind that Spotify was even still on. However, Spotify is catty and jealous and craved my attention so much.

If you're familiar with Spotify, you know how it works: you sign up and can listen to any music they have in their expansive library for free. The caveat, however, is that with the free version, they play commercials from time to time to offset costs. These commercials come at supposedly arbitrary intervals, but realistically right when you're getting most into the music and least want them. This was no exception in my narrative. With me having forgotten about the music almost entirely, Spotify viewed this as the perfect time to recapture my attention. My peaceful Sunday focus was obliterated by a commercial, which, for some reason, had to be played at a volume that was much louder than the volume at which the music was playing. And I suppose it wouldn't have been that bad if that were the only problem; I probably would've simply been startled and gone back to work. But it was also the word that started said commercial, and therefore the word that jarringly snatched me from my peaceful, cynosural zen:

constipation

Imagine being completely focused in peace and quiet and thinking you're alone, when all of a sudden someone sneaks up behind you and says in a monotone, matter-of-fact voice, "constipation." Experience my experience. And as if that weren't enough, I was stuck there—frozen in horror, still stunned from surprise, only able to sit there helplessly as I was aurally assaulted by some hussy going on about constipational discomfort and why I needed relief. Congratulations, Spotify. You've got my attention. I don't need relief. Constipation is not matter-of-fact. You know nothing about my needs, or my bowels. Plus, your commercial and its tactics were startling enough that any bowel obstruction I may have had previously would've been resolved on the spot. Maybe you should've thought this one through a little better, hmm? Keep your vociferous constipation to yourself from now on, thanks.