The Misadventures of a Bogus Master Gardener

She's trying to learn to embrace imperfection...she's failing...she can't keep her mouth shut.  She wants to know where he hid his master gardener's certificate.  She wants to grind it into the ground with her mud encrusted boot, pour gasoline over it, and watch the flame of the dropping match torch it into cinders.  She wants to know why he wasn't struck by a huge bolt of lightning when his large pudgy fingers wrapped themselves around that worthless piece of paper on his and hers last evening of classes.

He doesn't see a problem...all the hoopla she's created...why can't she just chill out.  So overly melodramatic...too nit witty picky...she's a pain where the sun don't shine.  She resigned to living with a mistake last time, so why can't she live with another insignificant teeny little mistake this time?  How was he supposed to know that huge purple flowering vine he crushed at the base when he backed up from weeding would have recovered if he hadn't ripped it out of the ground to cover up his mistake?  How could she have missed it that soon?  Did it scream out to her telepathically?  He thought it a bit overkill to be asked how he felt about trashing $35 and three years of her hard work down the toilet in 10 seconds flat.

Now she says she needs a break from all the extra work he's causing her.  She says she needs things done her way, not his way...to rephrase it, she said...she needs things done the right way, not the wrong way.  He thinks she's loopy...he DOES do it her way.  He went to those entire master gardener classes with her, for her.  He even agreed to stop bugging her to use her own personal money instead of household money for upkeep of the gardens.  He doesn't understand her last tizzy fit with her patch of newly planted prairie garden above the pond.  He listened to her whine about the drought tolerant plants being drought stressed, so he fixed it for her.  What's the big deal!  Why is she at the top of the pond cussing and raking off the four inches of water saturated powder-fine wood mulch he painstakingly lumped on and around her plants?

He's now banned from the gardens without adult supervision.  She says she wants him to stay away from her plants so she will still have a garden come late summer.  He doesn't quite know how to take his current situation.  He must have misunderstood her last week when she complained she no longer wanted to be his mom.  He decides to throw in the towel...no more Mr. Good Guy.  He plants himself on the cushy couch in front of the big screen television in that air conditioned room with his tall glass of iced tea and tries to avoid eye contact and feeling like a dog every time she drags in from the gardens saturated in sweat, tracking dirt across the floor looking...well, quite frankly...looking like one of those plants in her prairie garden that started wilting two days ago.