The stereotype of women in my age group seems to be that we are obsessed with shopping for clothes, the latest gadgets, makeup, and jewelery.
Not so with me.
No no, my friends: I’m obsessed with plants.
It’s a long story, but the short version is that gardening started out as a way for me to cope with depression. In a classic case of Gone Horribly Right, now I can’t stop. I need to make a border along that far wall! Must find something the deer won’t eat! Oh hey, look, heirloom bulbs! SO MANY COLORS! TOO MANY!
See, I like bulbs because they grow well in poor soil (which I have both near my apartment, and at my parents’ house), they tend to bloom regularly, and virtually nothing will eat them. I have lost count of how much money I’ve blown on narcissi. Don’t even get me started on how many grape hyacinths I’ve packed into my porch boxes. Someone stop me, I need an intervention. >.>
Also, I don’t know which ones to get.
Dutch Bulbs, you are the bane of my existence. Take my money. Take it all.
