"Would you like some iris bulbs?" my mother in law called to ask me this weekend. As I'm in the habit of doing when asked almost any kind of question (seriously), I gushed a hearty "Yes!" while my mind was tapping its cerebral cortex and asking "Um, what do you really think you're going to do with those?"
So anyway, the iris bulbs. I love irises. I truly do. Their shape and colors. I find them magnificent. But I'm not a green thumb. I plant something and then forget all about it. It's a miracle my children are alive, to be frank.
(not really! geez! what do you take me for!?)
So home comes this bag chock full of iris bulbs. It's been sitting on my kitchen counter (where all things aside from my children go to die), for a couple of days. I've been meaning to research when to plant them, what conditions they need, how to nurture them. You know. Just trying to make a good show of it. But last night, as I'm moving the bag to make way for more stuff to take root on my counters, I notice the label my mother in law taped to the bag so I wouldn't forget this earthly smelling bag of dirt and twisted roots and dried leaves contained iris bulbs and saw this: Irish bulbs.
Now, I have to admit, I'm kind of hoping that next spring, after these bulbs have survived a rugged winter akin to the potato famine years, they will sprout up as red headed, Guinness drinking, whiskey chasin', quick tempered, Sunday, Bloody Sunday singing beauties with thick accents and a desire to grow up to be either president of the United States or a New York City cop.
Plus, could you imagine the brawls they'd get into with my Scottish pines?
Labels: I'm half Irish. Check out my hair and pale skin. So what if half that look was achieved by Clairol. And I love Bono. So it's all good.