A gardener, I am not.

Every spring it's the same.

I start with the magazines... the beautiful pictures of brick, stone,

and green, green, green,
(like this one from Redwood Hollow Guest Cottages)

with lovely foliage and flowers abound, in charming colors that make a young girl's fancy

(okay, maybe not that young)

turn to garden plans and farmer's tans.

I run to my favorite garden centers and walk among the fresh, bountiful plants all sitting with their promise of backyard beauty hanging on their little plastic tags.

I line them up and group them together and stand back to squint at them with my 'seasoned eye'

(as if I had one)

and make my purchases with hope and hapiness of my future backyard bliss.

But then I get home,

and I walk around my backyard,

and I remember that all those lovely little promises I brought home last year have withered and died under my care...

because I am noooo gardener.

Luckily I have one under my employ...

and he works pretty cheap.

Though I'm not enirely sure of his credentials...

or his methods.

He might even take after his mother.

But, I do adore him, so until the day I can afford a hot latino named Pedro who adores painting my toenails and rubbing suntan oil on my back during his breaks by the pool, before I invite him inside for iced tea and he purrrs in his hot little accent,

"well, if you arrrre  surrrre your husband wouldn't mind..." 

But, I digress,

Luckily, the local garden centers have a one year guarantee

so we just leave the tags on. It makes it easier.

Trust me.

To survive in my yard you have to be tough...

strong...

and determined to live...

with hap-hazard pruning...
and schnoodle attacks...

and without water.

(unless you happen to be the patio)

So when I walk around my yard and find little signs of life,

specimens that actually lived up to their promise,

despite my attempts to kill them with neglet...

Well, now that just inspires me to go shopping.

Besides.... the guy who helps me out with them,
his name is Pedro.
(I know!)