Gifts for the Gardener (aka ME)

Have an avid gardener in your life and have NO IDEA what to give them for Christmas? Have no fear, I am here to help. You’re welcome.

Gift certificates to the nearest nursery or gardening center are a no brainer. Nothing gardeners like more than picking out little baby plants, trees or shrubs and bringing them home. Giving the gift of plants is a gift that literally keeps on giving; your gardener gets the fun of shopping for plants, the joy of planting them, and then an entire season—or more, depending on what they chose—of watching their picks grow. If you want to mix it up a little, plan a day trip to a far-away gardening center with your gardener and take them to lunch as well. Willingness to spring for the rental of a U-Haul truck to bring it all home in is even better.

Gardeners like tools—trowels and rakes and Korean hoes, oh my!  Gadgets,  knee pads,  specialty padded tie-wire twisties that help secure plants to stakes and are easy peasy to use are a personal fav. Wagons are nice. (Also, fun.) Fountains, garden statuary, ornamental pots, watering wands, gloves, wind chimes—lots of wonderful things out there for all the gardeners on your list. Gardeners are the one group of people that would be happy with a truck load of chicken fertilizer. Seriously. How many people can you give THAT to?

But if you REALLY love the Gardener in your life you will build them a fence. Eight-foot-high, with razor wire and guard towers, possibly with a function moat surrounding it all. I know that’s what I’m asking Santa for. Check with your home owners’ association before installing motion-sensitive fire arms. It’s important to be considerate of others, I always say.

Let It Glow

Sunglasses recommended

I might have mentioned before that I have some strong opinions on the necessity of having the Perfect Christmas Tree. It must be green, taller than me but shorter than my ceiling, and all its imperfections should ideally be located on one side—the side I’m going to cram up against the wall anyway.

If the tree meets these stringent requirements it is now on its way to being The Best Christmas Tree Ever. Any other “flaws” that the tree has will easily be camouflaged with no less than 1,500 lights---and remember, in this case more is always better. I’m a firm believer that you can’t judge what you can’t see and that glare is now your new best friend. If you are generous with the lights everything else becomes less important. And less visible. The tree, however, will be visible from outer space.

But Sue, I hear you asking, how will I know I have enough lights on my tree?

That’s simple—apply all the strands of lights you have. Now step back, squint your eyes and look for any dark spots. If you see any, go buy more lights and apply them to the dark areas. Lather. Rinse. Repeat as necessary. Figure at least 100 lights per foot of tree. Now double it. AT LEAST. More is better. Too much doesn’t exist.

 Once you have eradicated any areas of darkness and your entire tree is a dazzle it is probably wise to apply some sun block—SPF 30 or better—because safety first, people. Nobody wants to get a sunburn whilst decorating their tree. Although, if you truly have draped enough lights on your tree it’s going to be very hard for people to see what, if any, ornaments you have adorned your tree with. Investing the time up front to “over-do” the lights will pay off when you decide to go take a nap after only apply HALF of the usual ornaments.

More lights equal more napping time, win-win.

Count Down to Christmas

Christmas is a long, long ways away. It’s barely even December. That is my fervent belief: long ways away, plenty of time, no worry—no hurry. I’ve been known to feel that way right up until around the 20^th of the December when a quiet little sense of foreboding might begin to gnaw away at my complacency. I like to call it complacency, instead of general slothfulness. Words matter, people!

Where was I? Oh right, complacent. Peaceful, if you will. Spirit of the Season, really. I know there are people out there who claim to have finished their Christmas shopping by mid-July but secretly, in my heart of hearts, I never really believe them. And, let’s be honest here—If they really DID finish all their shopping—where are they keeping all the gifts? And—more importantly—will they be able to remember where that is when Christmas finally rolls around FIVE MONTHS LATER? I say nay.

And since I’m being honest, I’ll let you in on a little secret: I hate shopping for gifts.

It’s true. I like GIVING gifts, I like receiving gifts, I just hate figuring out what to GET people. Oh, occasionally—say once every five years or so---I’ll be inspired and come up with the PERFECT gift for someone. I’m so pleased with the perfection of this thoughtful, well-chosen gift that I feel as though I should be exempted from gift giving to this person for the next five years. “Remember three years ago when I gave you that Perfect Thing? That was awesome, wasn’t it? So glad we have these memories to look back on. Good times, good times.”

I hate it when I lack inspiration for a gift that matches just how much I love someone. I hate it when I feel like my gift giving is reduced to Just Buying You Some Stuff. And Things. That You Now Have to Dust. Merry Christmas!

So, if I don’t get you anything—again—this year, just remember this: it’s the thought that counts. Truly. And I thought you’d like to have less Stuff to dust. 

You’re welcome.

Abby Cat Aspirations

My cat Abby is a stone-cold killer. 

Her sister Annie is a sleepy, snuggly, little cat who would rather stay indoors and take a nap in an available lap.  Abby is made of sterner stuff. Annie likes cat food, thank you very much, served at regular intervals. Abby likes---how shall I put this delicately? Abby likes her food fresh.

Abby often brings me the results of her labors. Whether as homage to ‘She Who Runs the Can Opener’, as a sign of her willingness to share, as a comment on my ability to feed myself-- I can’t really say. Perhaps she just wants to be given her due praise—“Who’s a good Kitty? You are!”

Sometimes I think she does it to punk me. I’ll hear her making her particular yowl of success and I open the door, readying myself to praise her and admire the corpse—I mean CATCH. Only to find out that dinner isn’t currently CAUGHT nor ready to be served, it just ran across my foot and hid in the hall closet. Abby saunters in, very pleased with herself, and proceeds to take a nap, secure in the knowledge that there will be entertainment later.

Duck, duck GROUSE

I’ve learned to only open the door a crack while simultaneously blocking said crack with an object that is not my foot. I can peer cautiously out and see the current state of ---let’s call it freshness—before I commit to swinging the door wide to see what’s on the menu. Field Mouse? Shrew? Perhaps an unfortunate songbird?

I cautiously opened the door last week to the sight of Abby proudly seated next to---OH DEAR HEAVENS WHAT IS THAT?!  Or, rather, what WAS that?

A grouse, apparently. Nearly as big as Abby. She was quite proud of herself and rightfully so. And the next time I see her out slow-stalking the elk herd--- I might not laugh.