PunkKittyDiddy

106 Degrees: Feels Like An Acid Bath. On The Sun. After A Volcanic Eruption.

So many lives snuffed out this past week or so.  Michael.  Farrah.  Billy Mays.  And my fuschia plant.

Fuschia?  What was I thinking?  It was exactly like getting too attached to a young, wide-eyed college co-ed character in a "psycho on the loose" slasher flick entitled, "Die, Co-ed, Die!"

While I'm sure my lack of gardening experience must have factored into the plant's untimely demise, I can't say I didn't try.  Plus it might have been a slightly ambitious plant for the novice gardener.

See, since buying the plant, I also acquired the Sunset Western Garden Book.  Geographically, according to this tome, we live on the cusp of two different gardening zones.  The blurbs for both zones specifically issue dire warnings about the fuschia - out of ALL the plants in existence, both blurbs single it out.  By name.  And not in a good way.  One blurb insists: "A wide variety of plants can flourish here.....except for the fuschia."  The other blurb backs it up with: "No, seriously.  Only an idiot would try to maintain a fuschia here." 

I'm taking liberties with the paraphrasing, but............you get the idea.  And so do I, finally.

We hit our second day of triple digit temps today.  Even my once-almost-flourishing new hibiscus shrubs (now on life support) were nearly burned to a crisp in a single day.  (Yeah, and those are described as hardy plants in my newfound plant bible.)  Hell, our patio candelabra got all Dali on me.  The heat kicked an inanimate object's ass.

Fine.  I'm lowering my expectations.  This will be like the horticultural version of Survivor.  Every week, you can tune in and see which plant got voted off (or bumped off) the patio.  Stay tuned.

P.S.  In the interim, I'll also try to stop geeking out on this topic, and remember that there are other things to write about....................

Plant Massacre II: The Harvest

No, I don't know when to leave well enough alone.  Thanks for asking.

Still, it seems a shame that such a beautiful plant as the fuschia should fall victim to......me.  In an attempt to mitigate some of my guilt over the nearly inevitable fate of the plant I wrote about yesterday, I'm trying to propagate new fushias from some cuttings.

Which is rather hilarious, in that I know nothing about keeping the grown variation alive.  I'm not sure why I feel remotely qualified to attempt more advanced maneuvers like propagation.  But what the hell.

Worse, I find myself sitting and staring at the cuttings.  What am I doing there?  Waiting for some sci-fi inspired - or perhaps a musical-inspired a la Little Shop of Horrors - growth spurt to occur right in front of my eyes.  I've been practicing my doo wops in anticipation. 

Geez.  I need a job.

Plant Snuff Blog

Couldn't resist.  I had to have it. 

Now let's see how quickly I can kill it.

Wait - that's creepy, calling it an "it."  Serial killers de-humanize their victims in such fashion.  "It puts the lotion in the basket, or else it gets the hose."

(BUT....if I name it, and then kill it, that's probably creepier, right?  Not to mention, I'm keeping it in a basket, and it does get the hose sometimes.  Just a trickle, though.)

Anyway.......I found this at a local nursery.  It's a fuschia. 

Apparently they are really easy to kill via overwatering, and they aren't too keen on heat.   So, it's the perfect plant for a girl like me, who knows nothing about gardening, doesn't realize she knows nothing about gardening, has an itchy trigger finger (at least where those spray gun garden hose nozzle attachment thingies are concerned), and lives in a place where the summer temps reach triple digits.

It's just that.....it was soooo prettttttttyyyyyyyy. 

I had to have it.

Wow. 

Sobering moment of self-awareness. That stupid "Which character from Lord of the Rings are you?" Facebook application was right.  I am Gollum.  With a garden trowel.

Horticulture Shock

As soon as we finally had a backyard to call our own, I was pretty glib about what I thought we should do with it.  What the hell!  Let's throw some plants back there or something!   

Been a mighty steep learning curve. 

In that ongoing grudge match between me and our new backyard, the backyard is still winning.  However, it does have an unfair advantage.  You can't fight City Hall....or the Department of Water and Power.  Water rationing is underway, and since we don't operate within an income bracket in which phrases like, "Hey, the butler just informed me that we have a full-time horticulturist on staff!  Bitchin'!" get bandied about, that lush expanse of dew-covered green lawn and climbing ivy and rose bushes that I'd conjured up in my imagination when we first bought the house is just gonna have to wait. Maybe indefinitely.  (Turns out that green, in the aesthetic sense, isn't necessarily green in the eco-friendly sense.  Like I said....steep learning curve.)

For now, I'm warding off the alien-face-hugger weeds as best I can.  And while we can't afford to transform our entire outdoor living space into something less prison yard-y in one fell swoop, I've been concentrating my efforts on beautifying the patio and the yard's periphery.  Only, for an endeavor that is ostensibly about curling ivy and fragrant jasmine blossoms and tropical foliage, the results sure haven't been pretty.

There weren't many survivors in that first batch of fledgling plant recruits that I dispatched to the patio.  I watered 'em.  Sometimes.  (I was always under the impression that that's what you do with potted plants.  You water 'em - sometimes - and you go about your business.)  What kind of plants were they, you ask?  They were the kind in pots.  That you water.  Sometimes.  

See, in the past, I could never quite figure out why self-proclaimed gardening enthusiasts would classify this as a "hobby." Hobby?  Yeah.  Whatever.  Don't strain yourself sprinkling a bit of water on that begonia or anything.......

Pride comes before a fall.  And widespread plant massacre. 

My patio plants hung in there. For a little while, anyway. Then things started to go wrong.  Horribly wrong.  (Consult the picture above and to the right.  One of my ex-plants.)   The internet filled my head with all sorts of ominous theories.  WTF?  What's all this crazy talk about "root rot" and "replanting"?  "Mulch"?  "Aphids"? "Soil pH balance"?  "Planting zones"?

Turns out those gardening enthusiasts know a thing or two about gardening.  Go figure.  You can just stick a plant in a pot or in the ground......but screw you and the wheelbarrow you rode in on if you don't know whether said plant is an annual or perennial, and if it needs full sun or partial sun, and if the soil needs to be acidic or have limes added to it or whatever. 

Uh....what?

I've since learned that - GASP - some research and effort is required.  My father-in-law has enlightened me about stuff like deadheading (no, nothing to do with Jerry Garcia) and over- versus under-watering.  (Talk about horticulture shock.  What do you mean, "It depends on the plant"?!  What is this, a science or something?)  This latest batch of plants is.....well, maybe not thriving, but they are doing better than their predecessors.

Now I've gone and planted a few hibiscus shrubs in the corner.  Immediately one of the blossoms shriveled up and fell off.  I hung my planticidal head in shame.  It took me a little while to figure out that blossoms die sooner or later, eventually, even if things are going well.  Blossoms have a relatively short shelf life.  Who knew?  (I mean, besides the gardening enthusiasts....)  The same shrub that I initially thought I had slaughtered has since unfurled an even bigger and better blossom.  So I've gone from considering myself a ruthless, cold-hearted plant murderer to thinking I am the shit.  I put a shrub in the ground and it hasn't died.  Yet. 

Funny, I'd been thinking a lot lately about maybe taking up belly dancing, or getting back into martial arts, or pursuing some other activity that I'd previously considered to be a "real" hobby.  But now I have all these plants to tend to. Still...if I can get the hang of NOT butchering the poor suckers, this gardening thing might be an OK way to pass the time.....

Xtreme Gardening

Now that we actually have a yard, I thought I would try my hand at gardening.  It seems like such a genteel and relaxing pastime.  I pictured myself lovingly patting pretty flowers and nice-smelling herbs into the ground as butterflies floated around my head and birds twittered and wee Z. frolicked in sunbeams...... 

But, it turns out that - if essentially starting from scratch - before one can "garden," one must engage in "yardwork."  At least that's what you have to do if said yard was neglected for decades, which our new yard was - not unlike the rest of the house........

At this juncture, we can't really afford a gardener, and besides.......we're strong, hardy, industrious people.  We live near a Home Depot.  And I have a general idea of what to do with certain garden tools (or so I thought).  How hard could it be to transform a motley assortment of weeds and dirt into a luscious green expanse of tea-party-worthy lawn?

Frankly, I can handle the dandelions and tufts of crab grass and that creeping ground-dwelling ivy stuff (not the cute kind that festoons English cottages, alas).  But there's this other raving a**hole of a plant that has overrun the whole yard....a pestilent menace I refer to as the Alien Face-Hugger.  I don't know its proper, technical name - the last owner went along and hacked 'em all off at ground level, so I can't really identify this menace via the usual gardening database websites.  The dried remnants look a little bamboo-y - yet not - and its roots are stalwart, fathomless soil-suckers determined to remain in the earth for all eternity.........despite my best efforts.  The Giger-inspired nickname I have christened them with is especially fitting, because these bastards decimated two out of four of my new stainless steel gardening tools - just chewed 'em up and spit 'em out like that squadron of space Marines in Aliens.  After barely a day, my hand trowel snapped in half.  The 36 inch dandelion digger spear was bent into a 90 degree angle after a few hours of having a go at 'em.  I've since purchased a small pick-axe.  It's almost up to the challenge...though the efforts are still slow going....... 

My body hasn't fared much better.  The resultant callouses on my hands are actually larger in size than my hands themselves.  And every muscle and fiber of my being is refusing to speak to me till I toss some prescription-strength Motrin down my gob.

Admittedly, I'm feeling slightly less cocky about my ability to revive a dead lawn now.  Maybe this is one of those projects that I should put off for a while....at least until I'm a steroid-abusing, no-neck, iron-pumping gladiator.  In another life.  And yet.....

No!  I shall not be defeated by an inanimate, small-ish expanse of mere yard.  I have opposable thumbs and a semi-working brain, for pete's sakes.  And a Home Depot credit card.

It's on, suckas!