Saturday, Jun. 23, 2007
Dear Diary:

If the spousal unit and I are coming into the house together, from time to time I will glance ostentatiously to my right and announce, "Size really doesn't matter."

What makes this particularly effective is that:
a) it's done randomly and
b) it does matter to him in this particular case.

I would, of course, be speaking of his T-Rex hosta.

As my three loyal readers will recall, last fall the spousal unit purchased what I consider an exceedingly ugh-lay hosta. He fell in love with it for the sole reason that it grows to be about the size of a rhinoceros. Prior to the purchase of this plant I did not think there was a hosta on the planet I couldn't love, but trust the man I married to come up with that one unlovable hosta.

We somewhat acrimoniously vigorously fought negotiated about where to permanently plant such an eyesore unusual plant. With no consensus in sight and winter fast approaching, we planted it pot, label and all in a temporary spot that we both swore we would remember. And, of course, when spring came neither of us could quite remember where that unforgetable spot was.

We're not getting older, we're getting better. At forgetting, anyway.

However, as spring progressed there was no question where T-Rex was. It sent up extremely large shoots from its temporary home right by our front door, a place I pass several times a day. How did we both manage to forget we'd put that hosta there? It is one of the divine mysteries. Sadly, the spousal unit decided that this, this should be the home of his beloved hosta.

Fine.

A lesser woman would be broken by the sight of the ugliest hosta on the planet every time she entered her home. I have been known to mutter, "That which does not kill me makes me stronger" as I pass that hosta, and so far I've managed to soldier on.

About five years ago I bought a big yellow hosta called "Sum and Substance". I had it planted in a very shady corner below our home in the hopes that its golden colour would enliven a dark space. It never did particularly well there and so this spring I moved it to a spot in the yard where it got more sun.

To say that this plant has flourished in its new home is to understate the case. It has 'sploded. To give you a sense of how huge it is, first here's a picture of the spousal unit's puny T-Rex with my foot beside it to give you a sense of scale:

His puny T Rex.

Okay, here's the Sum and Substance, again with my foot to the right:

My massive Sum and Substance.

Now I don't like to think of myself as a size queen or anything, but, well, My Hosta Totally Kicks His Hosta's Ass.

Is it petty and small of me to obliquely mention this at random times?

Why yes, yes it is.

Do I have any plans to refrain from my gloating?

No, no I do not.

Bwahahahahahahaha

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 256.32 miles Ten percent there rubber duck. Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck.Half way there

Going Nowhere Collaboration

Goal for 2007: 500 miles


.:Comments (10 so far):.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (10 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
Bloggers over forty + ?
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.