The Secret Garden’s Revenge

What happened was I finally got sick enough of the sparse landscaping around the house. Almost a year into homeownership, and I finally noticed the yard.

Bryan was out of town. No matter, I had enough he-woman in me to handle this job alone. Off to Lowes I went. Sunlight or shade, water or none, perennial or seasonal, I didn’t care. I just selected every plant that I liked. A sunburn, 7 carts, and nearly 80 plants later (cacti included), I loaded up the vehicles.  After about the third crew member remarking that I had bought a TON of stuff, I realized I had over-spent.

Gardening is a past time. People do it for fun, for pleasure, for therapy. I crunched into the hard ground with a long-nosed shovel. You’ll have to forgive my gardening terminology as I never stopped long enough to read labels. Vibrations ran back up the shovel, jolting my hand.There were countless roots from a heinous whack-job of a holly tree. The roots were the size of my forearms, so I got out my clippers and began gnawing away.

Hours past. Five plants were in the ground. I had to keep going. Instead of digging for roots, I began to one-up them. I began to anticipate their every growth. So instead of burrowing with a shovel, I began clipping with the metal shears {in every direction}. Snip snip, crack! It was a glorious thing. I gouged the shears into the mud, awaited the pressure indicating a branch, then maneuvered the shears around until I had conquered another root.

But with my spontanaity came laziness. As I cut into the abyss of mud, not even looking in the right direction, I felt a zap. I saw a micro-firework, smelled what I can only describe as dirt burning, and jumped back. That was not a root. To be honest, I don’t know what it was but the A/C still works. Thankfully, I was wearing rookie yellow rubber kitchen gloves.

This was too big of a job. Dusk was setting in. I need to hire this job out. I counted 43 unplanted plants. Sigh. As I crept around the side of the house to space out the knockout roses for tomorrow’s lucky gardener, I felt a rock in my flip flop. I shook it out, but when I stepped back into my shoe, I felt the nail go through the bottom of my foot. A rusty nail at that. One that looked like it was used to help build the pyramids in Egypt.

I called the only woman I trust- our realtor. Before I could get out of the shower (as per her instruction), she was bounding up my staircase and yelling at me to put my panties on. All the clinics were closed, so we would have to get to the ER. Oh, and did my mother have my shot records?  I needed a Tetnus shot.

Of course not. I was an adult and was supposed to keep this information. We arrived at Baylor ER, but the wait was going to be hours. The realtor called the other local ER and asked for the waiting room ‘prognosis’ as if she was placing a dinner reservation. No such luck.

I told her I bet I would survive overnight and make it to the CareNow facility when they opened at 9am. Since one of the main symptoms of Tetnus-issues is lock-jaw, I told her I would text if I ran into trouble.

I got the shot. Two men that were not my husband later, the yard looked fabulous. And just like that, I’ve outsourced the therapeutic activity called gardening.

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