Where Is Miss Marple When You Need Her

As the proud if majorly mortgaged owner of a home DIH feels obliged to keep the property looking halfway decent. This is not easy as my house is surrounded by elegant homes that pay professional gardeners to keep their lawnsclipped and their blossoms blooming. Cheating bastards, all of 'em.

I may have mentioned this before but it bears repeating: DIH is a serial plant-killer. Houseplants, herbs, shrubbery... you name it, I can wipe it out ina week. How? I can't really say. It's a gift.

I do whatever the garden guides tell me. I water the damn things. I stick them out in the sun. Do they appreciate my efforts? Oh no. They all just freakin' die, one after another. It's like there's some kind of secret plant suicide pact. "If you ever get picked up by a redhaired woman with a hopeful gleam in her eye, well-- here. Bite this capsule. It's for the best."

Yesterday I attempted some weeding. This was because the front of my house was starting to look like a jungle. They issue citations around here for that sort of thing. So I went out and ripped out all the weeds I could identify. (Unfortunately DIH is apparently not so good at identifying poisonous plants, which is how she ended up with a nasty rash on her forearms.)

After an hour's sweaty and mosquito-plagued work I had a big pile of garden trash. The front yard does not look noticeably better, yet. But I did find one promising thing: a couple of mint plants, just minding their own business over by the hedge.

Juleps tonight, baby. At least something good came out of the garden. For once.