The Non-Victory Garden

There are things that are fabled to have calming powers. The sound of sea waves. Counting to ten. The scent of lavender. Intelligence for Your Life, with John Tesh. These are things that are supposed to make you feel less stress in your life and make you a more relaxed goomba. But what if these things don't work for you? What if you're allergic to lavender? Or John Tesh? What then?

When I was a kid, my dad had a heart attack. I came home from school one day, and my brother told me that dad was in the hospital. This news, coming from my brother, had just about as much believability with me as many other stories he tried to pass off as fact. (Like the time he told me that the reason I was shorter than him was not because I was younger, but because I had been adopted from a pygmy tribe, like the Oompa Loopahs, and my parents were just waiting for the right moment to tell me that I would never grow another inch). Because of this track record, I proceeded to debate this news about my dad with the technique called "Nuh-UH!" To which he replied back with the tried and true "Yeah-huh!" After a few rounds of this, I went to Mom, who informed me that, yes, this time my brother was actually telling me the truth. Scary shit.

The day my dad came home from the hospital, my sister and I gave him a present. We had read somewhere that stress was bad for people with heart trouble. And we knew that dad, due to working the way he did, had stress. We also read that having an aquarium full of pretty fish was something that relieved stress. So we enlisted the help of my mom, bought a smallish aquarium, and went to Meijer's to pick out a couple of fish. My dad loved the present, and we waited to see if their fish personalities would come out and inspire us to name them. That first night, I sat on my dad's lap and we watched the fish together. Calm, tranquil. Until:

Him: Oh!
Me: What?
Him: Nothing. The big one bumped into the small one.
(pause).
Me: Oh!
Him: Did you see that?
Me: The big one. He bit the small one.
Him: They're just playing. The small one sure dodged that quick, didn't he?
Me: I want to name him Smarty.
Him: Good name. I'll name the big one...Bully Boy.

We both laughted at the names, and thought it cute how they played together.

Only, the thing is, they weren't playing. The big fish? Was pissed off and psycho. And the small fish? Was being nipped, slowly, to death. We woke the next morning, and Smarty had chunks bitten out of him and was cowering behind a rock. Eeek. This was many things, but stress-relieving was not one of them. I was freaked out that my dad had to watch his fish cannibalize each other, which was the exact opposite of calming. I felt horrible. Welcome back from the hospital, Dad! What your blood pressure and your tired ticker need is the soothing sight of your pets killing each other. Feel better?

So, this weekend, we finally had some sunny, dry weather. (You all should be used to these weird segues of mine by now, so you can stop looking so confused). Nordic Boy and I commenced with Monster Yard Clean-up, Act 2. In case you forgot, the house that we bought last summer had a yard that resembled this, on a pretty city street alongside yards that look like this. We are doing our best to clean it up and make it look presentable, which is a Herculean task, and I so wish I was exaggerating. So, this weekend, we got our gardening gloves on and jumped in.

Gardening. One of the things that's purported to be relaxing. Do you see where I'm going with this? I think you do. Let me just preface what's coming next by saying that I am, by nature, a stress free person. If you looked up "que sera sera" in the dictionary, my mugshot would be right there looking back at you. I don't yell at people when I'm driving, I don't sweat work when I'm kicking it at home, and ballistic library patrons have never made me cry or even ruffled my feathers, really. Those everyday things that get people's knickers in a twist are things I don't even tend to notice. But put me in the middle of a messy garden? Here's what happens.

Me: (pulling on a deep-growing weed) Goddamn, muther-humping, crap eating nutsucker!!!!
Nordic Boy: WHOA. Everything ok over there?
Me: Yes (grumble grumble) I'm fine (grumble) I just (grumble grumble) feel all...(tug on weed)...kinds (tug tug)...of...(tug)...HATRED.
Nordic Boy: Take it easy, slugger. Take a breath.

Then we look at each other, and I have to laugh. We have a good chuckle and I move on to the next task. Minutes later:

Me: You god damn asswipe weed! You are coming out of there if I have to rip you out with my teeth, you big...FUCKWAD!
Nordic Boy: Sheezus! What the heck is going on with you?
Me: I don't know. But I'm feeling the pissy feelings, I gotta tell you.
Nordic Boy: Here, why don't you just put these clippings into the yard waste bags and stop pulling up that stuff?

So I do. Although, I have to stop every once in a while, and look at the mess, and SIGH. You know, one of those annoying, irritated, impatient SIGHS that crusty, moldy, deeply unhappy people emit. SIGH....SIGH...

Nordic Boy: I swear to god, you're the only person I know that needs anger management help for GARDENING. You never get mad about anything, yet THIS is what sends you over the edge? What is up with that?

What is up with that, indeed. I have no idea. I need help. Maybe I need John Tesh?

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl