A couple of days ago I went to Potted, a store in Atwater  Village I am now obsessed with. I was feeling despair at the enormity of my task, and, although I knew it wouldn’t buy me much, had a hundred dollar housewarming check from my in-laws that I wanted to spend. (They’re from Michigan, where that kind of money will basically buy you a new house.) I purchased the following, for $93.37:

One bag of cactus potting soil

Two large handmade clay pots (at 50% off)

One plastic runner from Mad Mats

With these I did this:

A Promising Entryway

I populated each pot with a clipping from our old home. It seemed fitting, to me, to start the garden with “something old and something new.” I suppose you could argue that there is something borrowed, too, as the agave pup was swiped from a field near our old residence. The Jade clipping came from our old patio — we left the plant itself behind. Because who gives a rat’s ass about jade plants, right?

Jade plant -- lame, but at least I know I can't kill it.

Agave. Or is it? I have no bloody idea.

(By the way, would one of you kind readers please tell me if I’m supposed to capitalize the names of plants? The grammar nazi in me is extremely disgusted at this ambiguity, and I’d rather hear it from you than look it up on line. Thanks.)

Anyway, it ain’t much, but it’s a start. As I walk up the steps and view my simple handiwork I can almost hear the paperwhites muttering “There’s a new sheriff in town. She’s clearly a hack.”

It’s true. There is. And I am. Sigh. As much as I want to be doing anything OTHER than being a fucking yard girl, though, this is what the deities have planned for me right now.

As long as I keep blogging about it maybe I’ll actually keep doing it. One terrace, one stump, one thorny bastard tree at a time.