Green Zone Online

I just don’t get it. Gardening, that is. Gardeners till the soil and lovingly tend their plants and flowers. Words like “natural” and “wholesome” drip from their lips like honey. “Look at me!” they say, “I can pronounce chrysanthemum and spell rhododendron!”

But then just ask them. Ask them why they toil in the sun, breaking their backs.

“Because it’s so therapeutic!” they gush.

My ass! The reason they need therapy is because deep down, gardeners are violent people—especially if they’re “organic.”

Take my wife.

Not long ago, Liz went out of town to a wedding in California. This would afford me the opportunity to drink beer, watch sports on TV, and miss the hamper with my underwear. Not this time. Instead, I would prove myself to be the caring and sensitive husband my wife longed for. Surprises are important in a marriage. So says Dr. Phil.

“You’re so predictable,” my wife would complain.

No one wants to be called boring, so I decided to prove her wrong. I would plan a huge surprise! I would clear her garden of each and every weed. Moreover, I would do it the way she would, by hand, without the aid of chemical defoliants. I worked my butt off. I yanked out vines. I was merciless with dandelions, and turned over the soil. Then I stuck in a couple hundred bedding plants, adding mulch as I went. As the sun sank, I admired my handiwork. “Boy, she won’t believe this!” I thought.

Indeed, she would not.

The next day I ushered her into the back yard. “What do you think of your surprise?” I asked proudly.

I could sense something was amiss. Her jaw dropped. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes flashed. Her teeth clinched. Her knuckles whitened. Her butt cheeks tightened.

“What have you done with my perennials!!!???” This was not going to go well. “You destroyed years of my hard work!” Steam was now escaping from her ears and I could hear a whistling noise, like a boiling tea kettle.

“Uh…I thought they were weeds. They looked like weeds…” My voice trailed off.

To say that I was ripped a new one would be an understatement. I would have been better off caught in the embrace of my best friend’s wife, my wife’s best friend, or maybe both at the same time. Who could believe this was the same composting, recycling woman I had married twenty-eight years before?

But like all storms, such as Hurricane Katrina, this too passed. I threw myself on my sword and went perennial plant shopping with her. And yes, a couple days later I even managed to get lovey-dovey with her. Nevertheless, I knew that she would reference my gardening debacle for a long time to come.

ME (gasping, on death bed): “It was sure…nice of the grandkids… to send…those flowers…”

LIZ: “Speaking of flowers, do you remember when you pulled out all my perennials back in aught-eight? I came back from the wedding and you had destroyed my garden. You do remember that, don’t you, Jerry? You didn’t even know the difference between weeds and a mature perennial garden that I slaved at for years. You know I loved to garden because it was good therapy and…say, Jerry…you seem to have stopped breathing. Anyway, my garden was my pride and joy and…..”

Memories last forever with women. They file events in their brains according to the Dewey Decimal System, and are capable of retrieving them at any time. These memories are permanently fused into their brains with emotion. Emotion, you see, is critical to the formation of memories. Men, on the other hand, forget everything. This is because they just don’t give a crap.

What’s the lesson here? For the love of God, stay away from your wife’s garden. Instead, play some golf. Drink some beer. Or maybe take in a ballgame. As your wife slaves away and becomes one with the garden, remember, there is no need to be wracked by guilt. Instead, think of all that therapy you’re letting her get. When you get home, just be sure to compliment her on her garden, especially the chrysanthemums.