I’m not good at plants. I kill them. I try so hard not to, but it must be my high electromagnetic field or something – their little leaves fall off and they wither away. I’m sowwwwwwwy.
Now that I have a terrace outside, I’ve been buying plants like an addiction. I never realized how much I have missed trees and green and foliage until I got a few plants on my terrace. These days, you can find me just staring at them on the terrace and listening to the birds (and brats nextdoor).
I’m becoming that weird old lady next door that all the kids were afraid to approach, but that everyone had a different story about. Perhapsee I should float some of my own exotic rumors. I like the one I invented years ago (to keep the biddies from asking me, “Wheeee! Haram! Why aren’t you married?”) about my husband the fighter pilot who was killed in the war defending Kuwait. Every now and then, I also float one about my husband, the business man with shady connections: It is said that he has is involved with the mafia and that I can’t live anywhere near him - even in the same country. It is just too dangerous. And then there’s the one that I killed my husband and I’m on the lamb from the long arm of the law. I’m known to fits of aggression, so that one actually makes the most sense to people. Why did I kill him? Well, it could have been any little thing; PMS for example.
Anyhoo, Back to my story…
My plant addiction has also turned into an outdoor-wall-art addiction, a planters-in-the-shapes-of-animals addiction, and an outdoor furnishings addiction. This having a terrace thing has opened up an entire new world for me – outside.
I love rhododendrons. DC is full of them in the Spring and I have been buying a lot of them lately.
Ok, this whole plant addiction will last about 4 more days before it becomes holyshitthat’s hot.