Weed and Feed: The Saga of a New Gardener

Yesterday I spent most of the day running errands with my Mom.  We did the typical things like go to lunch, the bank, the grocery, and shop around.  It was a pretty typical Saturday.  The one thing that differed was we also went to our local plant and garden shops.  Ever since I bought this house I've been pretty focused on my yard and garden.  In the middle of January I couldn't wait to buy hanging baskets in anticipation for May.  However, life is not all a bunch of roses especially if you have weeds.

I have spent countless hours feeling pretty stupid searching internet sites trying to identify my own species o' weeds (prolific little suckers).  I finally broke down and pulled one of the thousands out of my flower beds and took it to the "Master Gardener" yesterday.  There were about 4 other women with samples of grass, roots, bulbs, and weeds in various ziploc containers waiting to see Dave as well.  He is in his 60's and clearly Gregor Mendel is one of his heros.  He put my flowering weed under the magnifying lamp and began to consult his countless books. 

"It has purple blossoms."  I said trying to be helpful.

Dave looked up at me and peered through his bifocals, "I know that."

Ooh kay.  Sooorrry!

I began to think of other weeds I've battled last summer, "I also have something that looks like a lily pad."

"Yes, you don't want that either."

No kidding.

He went through the genus and species of each picture until he triumpantly opened the book and said, "Meet the weed."  There it was.  It looked harmless in the book, but he hadn't seen my yard.  Poor daffodils were competing for the sun with this weed. 

He then began to ask me how close the weeds were to my precious spring bulbs.  I didn't know.  I just explained that the weed was everywhere.  He then used my Mom as a prop.

"You Mother is the bulb.  Where is the weed in relation to your Mother?"  He began to move the now flacid weed in various proximities to my 5' Portugese decent maternal figure.

"Uh, its just everywhere."

Dave sighed and then began to tell me what I need to do.  "Go get a 20 oz coke bottle.  Enjoy." He paused for the dramatic effect. "Then cut the bottom of it off, put the bottle over the weed and use this."  He pulled some random poison off the shelf.  "However,you will not be able to do this today.  You need 5 days of sun to do this.  We are expecting precipitation tonight." 

In Utah in March that could mean anything from rain to inches of snow.

He then told me I needed to get a marker and put skull and crossbones on the bottle.  No kidding. 

Mom and I left feeling quite patronized.  We did go to another local favorite garden shop to replace a plant she recently killed by accident.  The poor thing was just hanging out of the garbage can when I got to her house that morning.  It was not a very dignified death.  Part of me wanted to go rescue it and nurse it back to health.  It was at that realization that I knew my maternal instinct was in overdrive.

Mom could kill things, I can't keep their growth under control.  Ah, the irony.

We wandered around the plants until we were overcome with a sweet fragrance.  It stopped us dead in our tracks.  A lemon tree.  It was a good height, it smelled good, it was unlike anything we've had before, and it didn't need cross-pollenization.  How cool would it be to be making chicken piccata and say, "Gee, I need a lemon.  I'll just go to the entry hall." 

We carefully loaded it into the Jetta and drove it home with the promise that if it looks like it isn't doing so well, Mom will find a new home with someone who can't kill it.  AKA me. 

Pineapples

I've been on family overdose.  Not my family.  My boyfriend's. 

I'm happy to say that he is in town for a rare week break.  It goes without saying that when he comes home, he attempts to maximize time spent with everyone.  As a result, a setting for dinner is just automatically assumed for me every night.  I love these individuals.  They are stellar people.  I'm just needing a breather.

There are subtle signs that I'm needing a break.  I begin to develop a taste for chard as opposed to pinot noir.  I've begun to pick up mannerisms of the matriarch and sayings of the patriarch.  I know the organization of the kitchen so when it is my turn to cook I don't struggle wondering where the collander is.  These are all tell tale signs that I need to retreat.

In the days of plantations in the South a sign of hospitality was the pineapple.  I'm not certain why I know this or how in the hell it still sticks in my head, but it does.  When guests would arrive, a pineapple would be placed on the table or their bed.  However, when a guest had out-worn their welcome, another pineapple would silently appear back on the bed.  Perhaps this is why you see pineapples carved into bedposts now at Ethan Allen and pineapple motifs on kitchen towels.  The only reason why I mention this is because the family has a planter in the shape of a pineapple on their front porch (now with blue pansies in it).  I doubt they really know the symbolism, but it made me giggle when I passed it.

Last year I was snowed in at their house for literally 10 days.  I will not spend the night again.  That was a time of desperation and unbelievable hospitality.  However, although it met my boyfriend's needs of having everyone in the same place at the same time, it will never happen again.  He just doesn't get it (he attempts to coax me every night into staying.)  I am almost 30 with my own home.  Why he doesn't spend more nights with me when he's in town is beyond me...especially on the weekends. 

Its not like we have some strange moral code.  Hell, where do you think I sleep when I'm visiting him?  There is no denial going on here. 

I can go on and on about what psychologcial analysis I have about this, but I'm certain it goes without saying.

At any rate, I have about oh, 72 hours (but who's counting) o'family time left.  When he leaves, I'll be depressed...as I sit alone in my own home on my own couch with my feet up on my own table...well, you get the picture.

Morphing into Management

These days I spend most of my time prepping for "difficult conversations."  I actually rehearse, write down bullet points, and try to anticipate the worst.  My life was not filled with such measures before I hit management. 

I could breeze through telling parents their child died and some difficult decsions were needing to be made.  I could reality test families of what their grasp was of a new terrible diagnosis.  For some reason, these conversations were almost second nature. 

Now I deal with conversations surrounding accountability, realtiy testing their perceptions, and ultimately attempting to inspire people to do their best.  These were topics I did not learn in graduate school.  In fact, there really isn't any sort of formal training on these issues.  I have spoken with those who have their MBA's and even they struggle.

My boyfriend and I discussed our daily agendas last night.  He commented that all I do is have "difficult conversations."  True.  Its funny that I never used to call them "difficult" until I started picking up the jargon from my boss/mentors in leadership.  I think one of my biggest road blocks is that I have way too much empathy.  Not only can I walk in that person's shoes, I can tell you the make, size, and style of the footwear.  Yes sir, I really put my heart into it.  By doing this, I tend to soften the message and impact.  This just ultimately gives me cause to beat myself up after for not being as firm as I needed to be. 

I've learned in my tenure that leadership is not defined by people liking you.  Its about influence.  And with influence there comes trust and respect.  I find its a lot easier to foster people liking you more than the two concepts of trust and respect.  Think about it, have you ever seen a grade-school age kiddo trying to use "trust" and "respect" on the playground?  Hell, no.  We are taught how to make friends, aka getting people to like you. 

These can be foreign concepts to install in people.  However, it is my duty as a leader, to figure it out and unfortunately have a lot of difficult conversations.