Things have gotten a little out of hand.
Half of our living room has been taken over by terracotta pots in various stages of growth. The dining room table (not that we have a dining room) is covered with seedlings. I talk incessantly about my grand plans for the balcony garden. I bring rose catalogs to bed and spoon them lovingly. The fact is, I talk to my tubers more than I talk to my boyfriend.
Fauxhawk has been observing this behavior with a kind of bewildered amusement. When I suggested we drive to Home Depot to find trellis and a watering can, he indulged me.
"Look!" he said. "There's a watering can."
"MEH."
"What do you mean?"
"It's ugly," I said, cruising past aisle after aisle. "I can't have that in my house."
"Are you serious? It's a watering can."
"I'm sorry, but it's ugly and it hurts my soul."
Then we went to Kmart.
Repeat above.
Target. Repeat. But with less good humor.
I'm not gonna lie, things got sticky. "IT'S A WATERING CAN!" he wailed. "JUST GET A FIVE DOLLAR ONE AT THE HARDWARE STORE!"
No. I'm not going to grow a pretty garden and feed it with some ugly-ass watering can, OK?
Days later, when he had fully recovered from the Big Container Store Debacle of 2009, I dragged Fauxhawk to GRDN in Brooklyn. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps I wanted him to save me from myself. Because there, right by the door, was a beautiful galvanized watering can of the most charming, classic shape.
It was perfect.
It was $49.
"This is perfect," I breathed. "This is just what I want."
Fauxhawk stared at me in disbelief. "Do you mean to tell me that in this economy you are going to buy a $50 watering can?"
Yes?
"No." Small voice. Very, very, very small voice. So, slightly ashamed, I chose this watering can, which is inexpensive and well designed and space efficient and orange but just slightly above average. And it's plastic. MEH.
I thought I could live with it.
I thought I could carry on happily with an above average, B- watering can.
Then I saw this:
Oh God, it's a William Morris watering can commissioned by the V&A. I need this watering can, but I already own a (wretched, B-) watering can, and I can't possibly have two watering cans in a very small apartment. So I'm going to ask you to buy one here and make me very, very jealous.
In other news, I am OBSESSED with Fermob, the French outdoor furniture gods. They make the most charming, beautiful tables and chairs in THE MOST DELICIOUS COLORS. (Can you hear me panting?)
Exhibit A:
What are the chances that I'll get the Hawk excited about a bright red folding chair with cut-out hearts that costs $100? I'd say slim-to-none, but that won't stop me from trying.
P.S. More bossiness: Fauxhawk also says I must stop doing "jazz hands" and "rabbit trap" with Roy every five seconds when I get home. Something about "Roy doesn't like it/You're torturing him/Blah blah blah." Must I? Are the cats not here for my enjoyment? Also, I am not allowed to call Roy "Bo" and pretend he is the Presidential dog.
All pictures involving extraodinary chairs from Fermob.
