Let it be known that I am a highly controlled
person.
Note that I said controlled, not controlling.
Controlling is a loaded term that implies crazy and mean, and I’m not one to
admit my character flaws.
(Side note: I’ve always let others do this for me, and as
most people will choose talking about you behind your back to your face, I
don’t hear them say it, which is the same as not having any character flaws at
all.)
Things spiral out of control very quickly. I’m
no great multi-tasker, and it’s almost all I can do to keep up with daily
responsibilities. With a full calendar of personal and family activities that
constantly changes, I find it difficult to go about my regular business, so I
keep a handle on things by adhering closely to the task at hand, and
recalibrating often.
This is why my family hears things like “Did someone
take a scoop of peanut butter out of this jar?”
Because the jar is new, and I didn’t eat any
peanut butter, and I didn’t see anyone eat any peanut butter, so the only two
options are: 1) someone here ate it, and 2) a hungry stranger at the store did,
and I unwittingly bought a tainted jar of peanut butter. The possibility of
option two is why I check the protective seal on all jarred goods before
purchasing. But sometimes I forget, which accounts for many strange inquiries.
Life is exhausting.
* * *
It’s mid-spring here, the week after Mother’s
Day. In this part of the world that means it’s planting time, and in my area if
you wait until Father’s Day to purchase flowers to plant, you will be left with
half-dead daisies and pawed-through flats of impatiens, the most high-strung of
maintenance-heavy seasonal flora. Impatiens are pretty but tedious.
Also what my husband says about me.
I keep a record of plants that I buy each year.
We have a small yard, but I like lots of flowers, and because I can’t even
remember if I brushed my teeth this morning, it’s ludicrous to assume I know
things like how many marigolds I planted last spring. So I keep a list of what
I buy and where I planted it and how much money I spent. Because nothing says
controlling like knowing how much money a bag of dirt costs.
Ahem. Controlled.
This year, among many other vegetative
beauties, I bought a flat of 36 vincas to plant in some hanging baskets and
window boxes (vincas are the prototypical flower – five petals, green oval
leaves). There would be extras - I wanted 28 plants for hanging baskets and
window boxes, and I’d use the remaining eight plants to fill out big pots and
other empty spaces.
I planted all afternoon according to the list,
and all went swimmingly until the very end, after I had washed my hands and
scratched all the itchy spots on my skin (hello, poison ivy, I’ll see you in a
few days).
While cross-referencing the flowers I had just
planted to my record of purchased plants, I counted only 35 vincas.
Thirty-five. But I bought 36. I was sure of it,
having counted the stems at the greenhouse the day before. You know how
sometimes you buy a flat of flowers and not all the little cuppy-things have a
stem in them? SOMETIMES THIS HAPPENS. But I counted 36 stems, and I could only find 35 planted flowers. The thirty-sixth vinca was missing.
A less controlled person would forget about it.
Would let it go. I remembered the post-it on my office wall – Let Go, it says.
My word of the year. Let it go, man. It’s one flower. Get over it.
Ignoring my own advice, I circled the yard again, list in hand. Counted. Cross-referenced. Five in that pot. One in
the ground. One in that big pot over there. Four in each hanging basket. Eight
in the boxes. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five. Did I throw it away?
Nonsense. One who knows that someone scooped a scoop of peanut butter does not
just throw away flowers.
Let go, I implored myself.
For the rest of the evening, I managed.
You know how something gnaws at you? Welcome to
my every waking moment. The next day I woke up and at first light gazed at the
new plants from the warmth of the kitchen window, amazed at how much they grew
overnight. At once the memory of the missing vinca sprang into my mind. I will
find it, I vowed.
I walked outside in the chill, coffee in hand.
I mentally went through the plant checklist again, by now a new groove in my
brain. Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
And I saw it. The 36th vinca. It was
nestled in a large pot next to a probably-peaking coleus plant. By August this
small specimen will be dead after giving up a scrabbling existence in the
shadow of its pot-mate, but there it was, green and glittering with the morning
dew, naïvely hopeful of the future. I exhaled, able to go on with the day, with
life.
Like I said: controlled. Not controlling.
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girl, you'll be a woman soon |
*******
I admire you for keeping a list and a total. I think I would cry if I knew how much money I have spent in the past on now dead flowers! ;) Glad you found your vinca!
ReplyDeleteI hate thinking about how much money we spend on consumable things. Someone once said how she hates thinking about the money she spends on food - ultimately, it's flushing money down the toilet.
DeleteI'd rather think about how much money I spend on flowers.
Great news about the vinca.
ReplyDeleteBut I still need to know WHO ATE THE PEANUT BUTTER?
That particular time it was my husband. He didn't eat it - he scooped out a scoop for the mousetraps he sets in our gardening shed. I harassed my family for days until he confessed.
DeleteThis is the information that I store in my brain.
I'm so glad you found it! This would have been me, too, pacing until I found the missing plant. It looks beautiful and comfortably nestled where it is.
ReplyDeleteFound you via Coach Daddy's blog--seems we both have books within that are itching to come out!
So glad I have a partner in crime on both counts!
Delete