Last week, she chose a paint colour (‘pastel sage’) based on the name on the can, with results she described as 'horribly awry'. The week before, she lamented that she and her SO had moved a couple of blocks east of the Boston lettuce zone on the Danforth, and entered ‘a lifestyle that was very different from the one to which we were accustomed’. (‘I imagine her neighbours reading this column, grabbing the Frankenstein pitchforks and torches and chasing her snotty St. Lawrence ass right back from whence it came,’ wrote blogger Ryan Bigge.)
This week, the Globe’s inimitable Michelle Osborne tackles the garden:
Being early in the season, there were not many blooms on the plants, and it was nearly impossible to tell the difference between the weeds and the plants.
In fairness, this can be confusing, in that there are often blooms not only on plants, but also on weeds, which, perplexingly, are also plants themselves. Flora: a whole new world.
Now we were faced with a front and backyard filled with plants with names we couldn't even pronounce, and a lawn in need of some serious maintenance.
Um: Michelle, if you don’t know the names of your plants (or weeds, for that matter), how do you know whether or not you could pronounce them?
La luta continua:
Two hours later, I had pulled up dozens of dandelions in the backyard, leaving patches of bare ground in my wake.
So: assuming, say, two dozen uprooted dandelions, that would come to a rate of one every five minutes. A useful tool called a trowel might have sped things up. Or perhaps just a spirited attention to the task at hand.
