Let's All Get Potted

There is no denying I have a black thumb.

While others may tenderly place their plants in nutrient-rich soil, then nurture and coo at them, my style of plant care can best be described as survival of the fittest.

One coworker gave each of us a flowering plant again this year. It was a thoughtful gift -- although not thoughtful as far as the plant was concerned. I could almost hear the poor blighter scream as it neared my desk, sensing the souls of plants past, once green and lush, now perished from too much/too little watering, overexposure to light or work-related stress.

There are those who may not be great with houseplants but are a whiz with their gardens.

Alas, these skills have passed me by, too. Only the hardiest of plants have survived over the years: the ones that conquered the weaker varieties -- the chokers, the insidious vines, the creepers. Bullies and badasses hold the keys to the kingdom that is my yard.

Yes, I have tried to cull the herd. I hack and chop and bludgeon. But still they rise again. And the little, pretty ones, blocked from the sun and unable to cope, simply stop appearing. Until one day, I think, "There used to be a tulip here. And wild strawberries over there. Hmm."

I have this dream. It's to cultivate an herb garden. I will grow thyme and lavender and all sorts of exotic varieties. I will plant them where no animals can pilfer them and where my predatory plants can't get at them.

Sigh.

We all know better, don't we? While I love flowers and trees and green things, I just need to step away and rely on the talents of others. Or visit the MetroParks, where Mother Nature has created her own soul-stirring works of art.

To be honest, I think the plant kingdom is cool with that.
 
 

Afraid of the Dark

I feel like Charlie Brown. It's Christmas, and I should be happy, but I'm not.

I tried to sort it all out in the car on the way home last night. 

Then all evening I tried not to let it bother me, but it just snowballed, and I didn't mean to, but I took it out on Mr. Ginley.

Then I felt worse.

So I got up this morning, determined to be happy. I thought I would read the paper for inspiration for my blog. I read a story about a pastor battling cancer and a drunk driving victim who's in a wheelchair struggling to keep up with his 1-year-old son.

Then I felt worse. How could I be feeling sad when others had so much more to be sad about? What a schmuck!

I'd thought about writing about Lillian Vernon, who passed away last week. With her family, she escaped Nazi Germany, came to America and founded an empire.

Then I felt worse. What have I accomplished? I go to work every day, slay dragons, come home, make dinner, and crash on the couch. I can't even keep my eyes open long enough to watch an hour-long dvd. Then I go to bed and work all night in my dreams.

So here I sit, caught in a continuous loop, feeling guilty because it's Christmas and I'm blue, feeling bad because others have it worse than I do, then beating myself up because I could be doing so much more than I am.

Deep breath. Cup of coffee. Do a little Reiki. Stretch. Stop comparing. Open the pressure valve. Count some blessings. Be kind. Forgive. Myself.

There, that's a little better.

I'm going to the cat shelter to work this morning. Engage in a little cat therapy. Then spend the day with my husband, who knows me so well and loves me anyhow.

Maybe I'll find a little merry here after all.

Yule Be On My List

A headline in today's newspaper states that 36% of us have not yet begun to do our Christmas shopping.

This no doubt includes my brother-in-law, who, in his growing-up years with my husband, was famous for his last-minute forays at the local drugstore where his only gift options were things like the Pocket Fisherman, Old Spice gifts sets and the (then) ubiquitous soap-on-a-rope.

For the record, I have made major strides in my gift shopping. This is made easier by the fact that my son is grown, and I no longer need to go elbow-to-elbow with fellow moms who are also on the hunt for the Toy of The Year.

Aren't gift cards just the ginchiest invention?

The internet has made things simpler, too. Rather than troll the mall for that perfect something, the world is your oyster at Amazon or E-Bay. I game the system by going to Giant Eagle, buying a gift card for either of these places (thus getting points which translate into big savings on gasoline), then go online and pay with the gift card. The other upside is my credit card gets a little rest.

I try to get to the mall at least once during the holiday season. The urge is overwhelming, even though I know I'm going to have to park in the next county, be jostled by gawkers who are reading inane texts from other gawkers, and ultimately leave with one or two things I bought for myself as a reward for surviving the experience.

Shopping locally has become more popular over the past few years. I think this is a great idea, and I put a few of my holiday surprises away in May, when I shopped booths set up at the Hooley in our neighborhood. Hopefully, I'll be able to find them before Christmas.

In the meantime, I do have a few odds and ends to pick up to complete my shopping. So, although I'm not part of the 36%, I cannot yet hold my head high and crow about having everything crossed off my list.

Ho, ho, ho...happy trolling to all!

Sentimental Journey

If the media and my own personal experience count for anything, the Millennial generation hasn't a sentimental bone in their collective bodies.

On the other hand, I, at the tail end of the Baby Boomer generation, am sentimental to the point of ridiculous.

I have kept boxes of old greeting cards from people I haven't seen in years, a pre-teen scrapbook, dolls and toys from my childhood, company newsletters from former places of employment, a closet full of photographs and much, much more.

As if it weren't enough that I've dragged this flotsam and jetsam around with me, I've also inherited some of my parents' treasures. After my dad passed away and my mom went to live in a nursing home, we went through and chose the things of theirs we wanted to keep. After everyone was finished and we were down to the things that were headed to Goodwill, I sighed, took my mom's paint-by-number bird pictures, and put them in the trunk of my car. I also have their yearbooks and even my grandmother's address/date book.

I'm just a girl who can't let go.

Contrast this with my son and his generation. I am not the only parent to lament that their kids don't care much about the toys of their own youth, let alone the items their parents or grandparents cherished in days long gone. The dishes and photos and mementos don't seem to mean all that much. And when we talk about selling our house and moving one of these days, our son does not get teary-eyed as I would have as a young adult.

Oh well.

When it's time for me to move on to whatever my next existence may be, I know most of my treasures will hit a landfill somewhere. Or a Goodwill. And maybe my sadness at that thought is just vanity. We all want to believe we're leaving something behind, but it doesn't matter. We won't be around to know.

And, not having lived in my era, who will understand my fascination with Little Kiddles. Or cardboard puzzles. Or the original Nancy Drew series of books.

In the end, it's all just stuff, right?

Maybe I'll spend an hour or two going through some of those boxes this weekend. Maybe this time I'll throw some of that junk away.

Sure I will...