2. Empty the pots. Dig a hole “right there” if a plant has been parked in the same spot for an entire season. No questions asked.

3. Banish the buckets and trash bags. Before I unearth a transplant, decide where to move it and … wait for it … dig the new hole.

4. Plan my garden projects a little more and wing them a little less. But don’t take the fun out of it.

5. End my gardening day sooner, before I collapse in a quivering heap of exhaustion and Mr. Sorry has to drag me into the house by my ankles.

6. Enjoy my favorite places in the garden more and fret about those other spots less—except the really ugly ones. Fix those.

7. Redesign the beds along the front walk and outside the kitchen window for the fifth year in a row. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky.

8. Build some raised beds and grow some veggies. But do not order every seed under the sun and get in over my head … at least not the first year.

9. Accept that I will never be taller or know the names of all of my daylilies.

10. Embrace working from home this spring and summer as I continue to build my new path. It’s going to be an interesting year.

The front walk collection

Hmm. The first day of winter. And my plants aren’t in the ground yet. Imagine that.

The herb garden that never was

This is the day I’ve been racing against in my mind’s eye all gardening season. That nebulous day when I told myself I’d have all of those plants in the ground. That far-off day waaaaay at the end of the calendar, that—when I bought an iris or daylily or hydrangea that I didn’t really need—I told myself, “Surely I’ll find a spot for it by winter.” Well, I didn’t quite make it. In fact, even by my sorry gardening standards, it’s stunning just how far I missed the mark.

Hydrangeas waiting patiently for another year

I knew I still had “a few” plants out of the ground, but the sheer quantity didn’t hit me until I went out to snap a quick photo of that one cluster of pots on the front walk and then discovered another cluster along the side of the house … and another near the back patio … and another on the other side of the house … and some other places, too. It was shocking to actually “see” all of those pots for the first time, even though most of them have been there for months (and, in a couple of cases, years).

Let’s take a quick stroll through my winter inventory. And these are just the ones that I hope will overwinter successfully. There are a bunch more that I’m hoping will freeze. When your eyes glaze over, feel free to skip ahead:

Cranesbill & daylilies left out in the cold

26 irises, 18 daylilies, 14 hydrangeas, 9 germanders, 8 cranesbills, 5 ajugas, 5 azaleas, 5 sedums, 5 dogwoods, 3 lobelias, 3 heleniums, 3 hebes (probably croaked), 3 nile lilies (safe in garage), 2 boxwoods, 2 bear’s breeches, 2 violets, 2 primroses, 2 agastaches, 2 hostas, 2 mints, 2 crocosmias, a baptisia (likely dead from transplant shock), a ladybell, a shrub rose, a ninebark, a smoke bush, a coral bark maple, a variegated shrub I can’t remember the name of, a penstemon, a blackberry lily, a verbascum, a rheum (that damned well better not be dead), some blue-eyed grass, some alpine lady’s mantle, some prairie mallow, a coneflower, and some marjoram, sage, rosemary, and thyme.

All I need is a partridge in a pear tree. And a landscaping crew—because that’s about 150 plants. Kind of makes you wonder if I actually have any in the ground, doesn’t it?

No wonder it’s been a relief to get away from the garden for a while, to embrace the excuse that it’s too cold and too wet to do anything “out there.” After all, it’s winter. So now what? Rest.

Last weekend, while I was smoking crack, I told Mr. Sorry that I was doing pretty well with my planting this year. I believe my exact words were, “I just need two more weekends before I’m finished.”

He looked at me the way he does when I tell him I’ll be done with e-mail in 10 minutes and he knows it’s going to be an hour.

“Okay,” I admitted. “Let’s round up and call it three weekends.” Then I realized, with much dismay, that in three weekends it would pretty much be July, which is pretty much when I finish every year.

He knew that bit of reality had just sucked the wind from my sails—the way he knows a lot of things about me after 20 years—so he said, in his typical supportive way, “Stop pushing yourself so hard. You know that gardening is never really finished.”

Then I dropped the spade and tore off my clothes and reminded him right there in the lily bed just how much I love him. Okay, only some of that is true. You figure out which parts.

So, despite the fact that gardening is never finished, I’m still “less finished” than I’d hoped to be at this point. And now we’re on a string of wacky 90-degree days that’s not typical for Seattle—ever, let alone in early June. So, instead of making gradual progress by sneaking a few plants into the ground before and after work, I now spend that time watering. That wasn’t on the calendar. And the hot weather is frying the living shit out of my smaller unplanteds. The herbs, that were supposed to be a spectacular knot garden, look freeze dried. The lobelia that I overbought got crispy and just joined that exclusive club, The Compost Pile.

I feel my plants dying while I’m at work. I know they’re gasping in death throes while I sit in a conference room that’s cold as an icebox discussing the same unresolved issue for the seventeenth time, as if we’ll come to a different conclusion, or any conclusion at all. Really, could we not just have this meeting in, oh say, December?

And work politics pale in comparison to my impending plant mortality. When Suzie comes to my office to complain about Hank, who just sent me e-mail to complain about Suzie, I want to scream, “People, there are plants dying as we speak. You are not tender hostas huddling in the shade waiting for someone with an opposable thumb to turn on the hose. You are adult human beings who live in air conditioning. Surely you can take care of yourselves for a few days.” And after work, I drive home in a fury, repeating like a mantra, “Hang on little babies, Mama’s coming. Hang on.”

So this weekend, I’m making one last push to get the rest of my plants into the ground, even if a few things are not planted perfectly. Because they wouldn’t have been perfect even if I’d had “just two more weekends.” In fact, as I’ve been watering, I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find that some of my favorite areas in the garden are from previous years when I also needed “just two more weekends” and finally stuck the plants in the ground somewhere so they wouldn’t die. Let’s see what surprises I can leave myself for next year.

After giving it some deep, scattered thought, I’ve concluded that “The OCD ADD Gardener” may be more befitting of my problems.

On the OCD front, let’s just agree right now that tidiness and control are not merely niceties. Life is incapacitating without them. I am, for example, entirely unable to just dig a hole and plop a plant into the ground. First, I must compulsively deadhead every surrounding plant, sift the dead leaves from the mulch, and edge the entire bed—all to plant an impatien. And that’s all out the window if the alarm was not set to an even digit on that particular morning.

As for the ADD—what was my point? Oh, yeah—I work in all of the beds at the same time, even though there’s only one of me. I’ve tried to confine myself to a single bed, but it’s impossible to move a plant without the ensuing garden algebra. To move x to more shade, I need to move y to more sun, and then move z over a foot to avoid crowding. That’s how I end up with half of my garden uprooted every weekend—all to plant an impatien. And that’s if I remember what I was planting in the first place.

Combined, the two disorders cause me to ask myself quite frequently, “Now, what was I doing?” The other day, after getting sufficiently OCD and ADD and finally getting around to digging the hole for some heirloom primroses, I grabbed the hose to water them in. While I was unreeling the hose, I remembered that I needed to water the impatiens in the shop bed around the corner, so I pulled it out to its full length to do that. While I was watering the impatiens, I noticed that three blades of grass had crept into the bed, so I grabbed the spade and freshened the edge. While I was edging, I noticed that the clumps of ice dance sedge looked shoddy, so I spent an hour plucking crispy brown blades one by one because it was the only way they pulled out cleanly, even though no one but Willy the neighbor dog will ever stick their head into my sedge to see if it was plucked cleanly. While I was doing that, I noticed that the rock garden was pretty dry, so I dragged the hose over to water the heirloom primroses planted there—oh, yeah. Primroses. I was planting primroses. That’s why I picked up the hose two hours ago—all to water an impatien.

May’s getting a little long in the tooth, and I still don’t have nearly as much done as I need to have done by now. I’d hoped to relax and enjoy the long weekend, but I’ve spent most of it running around in a panic trying to rectify the most horrendous of my garden atrocities.

I moved a climbing rose from deep shade to sun, freed the roots of a Will Goodwin clematis from the confines of its one-gallon nursery pot, cut the dead cotoneasters to the ground so they weren’t a fire hazard, swept the sweet autumn clematis off the front door and into a pile near its trellis, transplanted my favorite butterscotch daylily away from the traffic path of dogs and grocery bags, demoted the definitely-dead plants from the “dead bed” to the compost pile, planted the black tomatoes, and sorted my driveway inventory of wilting, rootbound plants that I bought a couple of weeks or months or years ago.

When I’d done all of that and was disgusted by the long list of things I still needed to do, I had to get away from it all. So I went to some nurseries that I don’t usually frequent, searching in vain for one of those new Incrediball hydrangeas that Erin at The Impatient Gardener mentioned in a recent post about new plants she loves. Because with seven unplanted hydrangeas in the driveway and a good 20 hydrangeas in the beds, I should most definitely be spending my time driving around on a quest for another hydrangea. No luck finding one, though. And when you click the link above to check out her post, that’s not Erin in the photo. I thought it was at first, but then I realized it’s a professional Spring Hills Hydrangea model.

I did, however, pick up a replacement preziosa, which is probably my second-favorite hydrangea after Annabelle. The preziosa that Lornet sent me as a remodel gift died over the winter. Those are the kinds of things I’d just as soon Mom didn’t know, but it’s hard to keep secrets now.

Yesterday, as the sun was fading fast and I was furiously stuffing lobelia into pots like there was no tomorrow, Mr. Sorry said, “You’re really getting a lot done this late in the day.” I winked at him with a caffeine-dilated bug eye. “I just had three cups of coffee.”

Only one day of the long weekend left, so I better get back at it.

One of the few things I let the landscaper do after the remodel was transplant the royal burgundy cherry tree. Transplanting trees is a b*tch, and I was more than happy to stand back and watch.

The landscaper, however, was reluctant—probably because he knew that transplanting trees is a b*tch. It was also late June, and he squinted at his watch, trying to decide whether to tell me that it was too late (or too early) in the year to transplant trees. Now, being a sorry gardener—with pretty much total disregard for the calendar—I looked at him as if I were unaware of those rules, or thought they were just guidelines. Maybe even unsolicited advice.

So at 7AM, to avoid the midday heat, a crew of three guys and a supervisor began transplanting my burgundy cherry tree. It was such a pleasure to watch them do it correctly—like my own episode of a gardening show. And, oh, it would’ve been much different if I’d transplanted it myself.

The first thing the landscape guys did was dig the new hole in the new location. Me, I would’ve dug the new hole last, after I was too exhausted to lift a shovel and with the tree gasping beside me in the hot sun.

The next thing the guys did was dig a shallow trench waaaaay out beyond the leaf canopy to find the roots. Me, I would’ve just eyeballed it and stuck in the shovel where I remembered the rootball last being when I’d planted the tree three years prior.

When the guys started digging, they worked in rhythm, smooth as a chain gang. They made a deep trench around the tree and worked their shovels further and further under to unearth it. Then they gingerly lifted the tree onto a tarp—while protecting the exposed roots with another tarp—and then each of them grabbed a corner and they carried the tree to its brand new hole. One of them may have groaned, but only one of them.

Now that’s how to transplant a tree.

Here’s how it would’ve gone down if I’d done it. I would’ve skipped the trench and pried out the roots with three shovels, the garden fork, and the hoe. Then I would’ve repeatedly shoved my full weight against the tree until it was leaning akimbo and I could stab at the roots until it finally broke free, like a baby tooth hanging by a strand. Then I would’ve wrestled the tree to the ground all sweaty and groaning and then dragged its limp carcass over to the spot where I hadn’t dug the new hole yet so it could sit in the hot sun with its roots drying up while I had a cold beer and swore under my breath that I’d never transplant a tree again.

Not all of my plants are waiting patiently in nursery pots. Many are bare-ass naked with their roots fully exposed. I think it’s sort of a garden hazing on my part—bare root boot camp, if you will. “Recruit! Yeah, you Nursery Start! Do you have the roots to survive in this garden?”

A lot of folks choose their plants for the lovely foliage or beautiful blooms. Some even consider fall color or bright stems for multi-season interest. I add roots to the equation, since I see a lot more of them than most people do.

Now, having these plants out of the ground did not bother me in the least in September, October, November, December, January, February, or March. In April, I had a twinge. But now that it’s May and all of those full-Monty plants have started with the budding and the blooming, I feel a little embarrassed for them (and for me).

So over the weekend I jetted around the garden on a mission to get all of those bare roots into the ground. And I did pretty well. I finally planted the Stella daylily clumps that had been out of the ground for so many seasons that I swear I heard muffled screams when I covered their roots, “Mmmpfh! It’s dark and cold in here. And the view is lousy.”

I also moved a catmint that had done a good job of digging in its own heels. For drama, it swooned into transplant shock. No fainting, honey. You weren’t even really planted.

I finally planted the two hostas—burly Midwestern recruits whose first tour of duty was a blistering summer in plastic Walmart bags. After a couple seasons’ furlough in the ground, they re-upped for a second tour last winter, just to see if they still have what it takes.

I was going to plant the lamium, but it has invaded the entire bed and the original clump is lost somewhere, like a wave in the ocean.

And I didn’t plant the Cornelian cherry tree that’s been standing on its bare root ball in nearly the same spot for nearly five years now. I still can’t think of a good spot for that.

“May Panic” is upon me. It actually started last week, when I was too sick to do anything except weakly croak from the couch, “Last weekend of April … must work in garden … May coming like freight train.” Mr. Sorry thought I was delirious from the Mucinex.

May is the month when I stop wandering the garden looking in vain for mundane tasks just to be outside among my plants. Five hours to prune the “dead” wood from the “old” wood on the Montana clematis? Sign me up. I’ve got time to burn.

May is the month when everything springs into bloom and I can stop prowling the beds with my reading glasses in search of new shoots. “Oh, look! The rose has another new bud. Or is that an aphid?”

May is the month when I am both amazed and chastised that the plants I so thoroughly abuse have survived another season and come back to be knocked around some more. And every May I promise them that this year, it will all be different.

May is the month when I find the plants I forgot I bought. “Why, hello. What lovely foliage. And who are you, again? I don’t seem to remember inviting you to the garden last year, but I’m so glad I did.” And it’s the month when I find the plants that either I heeled in or the dogs planted. “Hey, you over there. Why are you hiding in that shady spot against the wall when your tag says ‘full sun, front of border’?”

May is the month when I get to see how much the kids have grown. It’s amazing how quickly they get big when they’re not bonzaied in a nursery pot. The dart’s gold ninebark stands proudly against the downspout while I check the pencil mark and confirm that it’s a full two feet taller than last year. The lady bells have gotten a little fat and sassy and are hogging the bed they share with the mottled dogwood. And the spirea that used to be snatched bald could, quite frankly, use a little off the top and sides.

May is the month when everything needs me at once—and, yet, nothing really needs me at all. Maybe that’s why I panic in May.

Cotoneasters do not transplant easily. And it’s not like I don’t know that. Google “cotoneasters” and you will read this over and over again. It’s not one of those conservative gardening rules either. People attest to it in forums, and I myself know it’s a fact because I transplanted (i.e. killed) three a few years ago. I even have photos of the withered carcasses to prove that it was not a figment of my imagination.

But still I’m transplanting the cotoneasters.

And it’s not like it’s an easy transplant. First, I have to build a new bed. At the edge of the yard. Where the rich dirt that grows our lawn tapers off to native soil so arid and rocky that I bent a tine of the garden fork. Where my nemesis the creeping buttercup is so dense that I have to patiently pull up its pernicious roots. Where the garden hose doesn’t reach unless I drag out the 100ft extension.

But still I’m transplanting the cotoneasters.

And it’s not like the cotoneasters aren’t doing well where they are. If anything, they’re doing too well. I’d envisioned their lovely, arching branches filling the space beneath the tall bedroom window. That they did—and then some. Not a hint of fireblight either.

But still I’m transplanting the cotoneasters.

And it’s not like I know what I’m planting in the empty spot that will be left under the window. So, in all likelihood, that very conspicuous spot will be very conspicuously empty most of this year while I wait for inspiration as to what to plant there and finally throw up my hands and say, “I should never have moved those cotoneasters!”

But still I’m transplanting the cotoneasters.

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.