Shakespeare must’ve been a gardener …

To bulb or not to bulb? That is the question as my cursor hovers over the SUBMIT ORDER button and I ponder whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of clicking now or to take arms against a sea of autumn troubles and just buy some pony packs in the spring.

Why this sudden change in my hue of resolution? I’ve known which bulbs I want since the Tulip Festival back in April. And this year, I shall not suffer the heartache and thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to by ordering too many and spending too much. No more. Neither shall I order any bulbs smaller than my fist, except one bag of crocus for Ma Bell.

So why then do I lose the name of action? Why am I sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought, unable to click the SUBMIT ORDER button?

Perhaps it is the calamity of so long life. All my sins remembered: the bulbs still in bags in February or the ones planted in the family room carpet in December.

Or perhaps the commitment gives me pause. For if I click, then come October I shall bear the whips and scorns of time—unless I unexpectedly shuffle off this mortal coil before the UPS man arrives. And, if that, who then would fardels bear?

O, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wished—not to bulb. To rest, perchance to dream. Ay, but there’s the rub. For if I fail to grunt and sweat under a weary life this autumn—if I myself my quietus make with empty beds—then what dreams may come in spring?

And that dread makes me rather bare those ills I have, as conscience does make cowards of us all.

Click! ORDER SUBMITTED

Ah, December. Finally time to plant my bulbs.

I plant my bulbs in phases, the way they roll out those sprawling suburban housing complexes. With PHASE I: ORDERING done, and PHASE II: THINKING ABOUT IT well underway for the past couple of months, it was finally time to move on to PHASE III: PLANTING, before the “D” month becomes the “F” month, like last year.

I have ingrained issues with getting any of my plants into the ground, but planting bulbs is a particular challenge. It seems like such a lonely endeavor and a complete leap of faith compared to planting a pretty perennial with nursery-fresh foliage. Something just seems to be missing when I plop a brown bulb into a brown hole and pile dirt over it. It looks exactly the same as it did before I went outside. I could’ve stayed in the comfy chair drinking coffee.

Despite that, the planting went amazingly well this year. The hyacinths were easy because I forgot to order any. And I knocked off the tulips quickly because I only ordered orange shades so I didn’t hurt my brain concocting complimentary color schemes. And to keep the deer from eating them this year, I planted them in the family room, in all of that dirt the dogs have tracked in to the carpet.

I planted a few red tulips outside near the tree, where I always plant red ones. But the squirrels are already carting them away, so no deer worries there either. As for that 5-gallon bucket of bulbs from last year, well I just planted those right back into the bed I dug them out of in September. So seldom do I have the chance to turn back time. I socked away the reticulated iris in the rock garden, forced the dutch iris in pots to ward off the late-winter blues, and tucked the delicate white daffodils among the hellebores, where I can see them real good from the kitchen window.

I was really on a roll—I even got the garlic planted!—then I hit the glory of the snow. Talk about knocking the wind out of my sails. Next year, I’m counting the cost of bulbs in hole labor instead of dollars because those tiny bulbs that seem like such a bargain at 50 for $6 have a ridiculous cost/labor ratio.

But I pushed through the pain and can proudly say that my bulbs for 2010 are all in the ground—and it’s only early December. So NOW what am I going to feel guilty about for the next couple of months?

I debated whether to buy bulbs this year because I have a long history of them still being in bags in February and looking like this in June.

Not to mention that I’ve already spent most of the summer dealing with bulbs. I mean, I was still enduring tulips in July and looking past faded foliage in August and enjoying dried stems in September, so it was really easy to find where they were buried when I decided to yank them all up in October so I could plant them in a better spot “this fall.” That left me with a 5-gallon bucket of bulbs from last year, so did I really need more? Apparently I did.

I ordered from John Scheepers for the first time this year. I know it sounds ridiculous to order my bulbs from Connecticut—about as far across these United States as you can get from Seattle—when Washington Bulb Company could’ve pretty much just tossed them to me over the county line from La Conner, WA (bulb capital of the Pacific Northwest and home of the Skagit Valley Tulip Festival). But Scheepers had the nicest catalog and Website, plentiful info about the different bulb varieties, and their photos seemed color-true (unlike some catalogs that have a strange magenta glow). So I decided to reward my totally pleasant shopping experience by giving Scheepers my hard-earned dollars. You know, the way people used to do business.

The day I placed my order, a nice lady even called me—yes, called me on the phone instead of sending email—to ask if I wanted early delivery of my bulbs so I could chill them because on first-glance at the USDA horticultural map, I appear to live in Zone 8A, but if you squint real hard (and don’t want 200 tulip bulbs in your fridge for two months), it’s actually more like Zone 7B.

Given my history with getting bulbs in the ground, I tried to be reasonable about the size of my order this year. Of course, in my first giddy gallop through the catalog, I circled every flower that had a petal. That hypothetical order totaled out at a mortgage payment. So I waited a few weeks until the NEW! RARE! MUST-HAVE! LIMITED QUANTITY! bulbs (that I really wanted) were sold out. That only got the total down to a car payment. So I made one last pass and chose only the bulbs I’d want at my funeral (and a couple I wanted to try before then). It was a little morbid but it came in at a winter utility bill, and I could live with that.

Pretty much as soon as I hit the Submit Order button, my bulb enthusiasm evaporated and I began to dread receiving them. There were a joyous few weeks of peace, waiting for the autumn chill to descend upon Zone 8A/7B. Then one fateful day, I received e-mail announcing that the big-ass box had shipped. I felt like I’d gotten an IRS audit notice. Every morning, I clicked that evil little UPS tracking number and watched with horror as the big-ass box was arrival and departure scanned in a dozen states and made its way toward Washington. Next year, I’ll see if there’s a delivery method slower than Standard Ground. Wagon Train, maybe.

So the big-ass box is on the front porch, where the UPS man left it last week. Despite the dire warnings to UNPACK IMMEDIATELY, I haven’t touched it … because then the work really begins. Check back with me in February. It may still be out there.

… when your bulbs are still in bags in February.

I’m not exactly certain how many crocuses I planted, but only six survived in my garden this year. Make that seven.

I planted a bag of 20 dark purple crocuses under the ninebark—that would be the Diablo ninebark. Also known as “squirrel territory.” I distinctly remember planting them. It was notable because it was in a month resembling fall. Not a single survivor.

I also remember planting the rare blush-colored crocus that I splurged on from a bulb catalog despite the price and there being only six in a bag. Those six bulbs caused me considerable guilt as they passed the months of winter in the laundry room and began to sprout through the bag. So I distinctly remember planting them in February in a prominent spot to guarantee I’d get to enjoy them. And I distinctly remember thinking of a better prominent spot. But I distinctly forgot where that spot was.

That same day, I also planted 20 yellow crocuses under the American cranberry. I poked my finger deep into the mulch and stuck in the little bulbs. I watched and waited, expecting a bunch of little soldiers to appear, but only six survived. I carefully scooped them up and moved them to a more prominent spot.

But there’s a lavender crocus that blooms every year, without fail, right in the middle of the yard—proving the Darwin theory. It’s a leftover from before the remodel, and it not only survived the bulldozers, but each spring it emerges boldly in the yard and braves 12 rampant dog feet—16 when Willy the neighbor dog visits. I go about my life, the lavender crocus blooms, I marvel for a moment at the wonder of nature, I send Ma Bell a picture to assure her in the darkest January hour that spring is coming, then the lavender crocus eventually gets squished, and it comes back the next year. Now that’s a crocus.

This year, I put the bulbs in the laundry room so I wouldn’t forget to plant them. How could I forget to plant them if I had to walk past them every day to get my underwear? Actually, I don’t “forget” to plant them. I think quite a lot about planting them. I just don’t get around to it.

September feels too early. I’m not done with summer yet—let alone ready to think about next year, for God’s sake. And the late flowers are putting on such a show that I don’t want to wreck the beds. And it’s still downright balmy. It’s got to be a little chilly to plant bulbs, doesn’t it?

Then it’s October. The rains have set in and I want to hole up in the cozy house, drink coffee, and listen to the drizzle. It’s Seattle, after all. And I forgot how burdensome it is to garden in a coat. And my hands are cold. Do I really have to go outside?

Then the Thanksgiving/Christmas whirlwind hits and my bulb guilt has a month off while my holiday guilt kicks in. Plant a bulb now? With all of this decorating and cooking and shopping and festivating to do? Are you kidding me?

Then the lull of late December/early January sets in, which is traditionally when I plant my bulbs. At that point, I’ve procrastinated long enough that panic overrules my commitment aversion. If I hope to see any blooms in spring, I better get those bulbs in the ground pronto, and it doesn’t much matter where … except that this year we had 19 inches of snow and were shoveling trenches for the dogs to go pee. Not a lot of bulb planting going on.

Now it’s February and my bulbs are still in the laundry room. The nice, warm laundry room. I used to keep them in the garage to chill until my planting panic set in. That way, I felt like a heroic gardener instead of a sorry one. See how long I waited to plant those bulbs? And I still got beautiful blooms!

But the garage was fraught with peril. One year, the fat bulbs that I splurged on from a bulb company became delectable, half-gnawed mice snacks. Last year, Mr. Sorry found my bulging Home Depot bags of bulbs in the garage again and tried to thwart the rodents and cover his wife’s sorry ass by putting them in a plastic storage bin that sealed amazingly well and created a veritable terrarium of rotten stink and blue-green mold that probably could’ve cured some third-world diseases. He meant well.

So my bulbs are in the laundry room. Better go throw in a load of whites.