Because I must have been dropped on my head when I was a baby

On Saturday morning, bright and early, I had a manicure and pedicure. That's a sweet way to start my weekend, waking up, putting on comfy sweats, walking the dog, getting a cup of coffee and then driving two minutes to the nail salon to have my nails done.

As I was sitting in the chair, I could not get the Smith & Hawkcen catalog out of my head, the one I looked through before going to bed Friday night. The catalog featured terrariums, and I realized that I could not possibly live in my house a minute longer without at least one terrarium.

Until I got to the store and saw the terrarium containers. Ornate designs, elegant and sleek and a bit delicate looking. Not something that would fit in my house which, when I look around, I realize I apparently prefer to resemble the comfy interior of a barn. A terrarium of the Smith & Hawken variety would be as out of place in my living room as a Tiffany necklace on a horse. But they had bulbs and old looking pots that were packaged together with all the dirt you needed, on sale from $38.99 to a mere $8.00. Terrarium schmerium, what I needed was Paper Whites in and a rustic looking pot. And I bought a couple extra bulbs for a couple other sufficiently worn looking pots. And the ever-important moss, so you're not just looking at dirt in a pot on your counter while you're waiting for your Paper Whites to sprout skyward.

There's something wonderful about putting your hands in good soil, about planting and watering, something so warm and soothing and life-affirming that I could not leave well enough alone with planting the three pots with dirt and bulbs and moss. Nope, I had to step onto my teeny tiny back porch, all covered with soggy felled leaves and hopelessly dead plants in window boxes and iron baskets and big terra cotta planters. An hour and a half later, dead plants had been removed, dead leaves raked and bagged, and stale dirt turned for aeration. I felt good.

And then I gazed at the neighbor's bougainvillea that had creeped over and along my side of the fence. It was a beast with menacing thorns that could take my eye out, a mass of branches so thick I could stand beneath it in the pouring rain and not feel a drop. And I thought, Why not tackle that as well? The answer should have been, Because you got a manicure this morning, but instead was, Well, you're out here anyway. No small undertaking, this involved two types of pruning sheers and a ladder. When that was finally over, still not able to leave well enough alone, I cut back the Confederate Jasmine that was threatening to take over all other living things within five feet of the fence.

And then, just for fun, I pulled weeds.

The teeny tiny back porch, the walkway, the fence and the yard are well-groomed and clean once again. Sadly, the same can no longer be said for my fingernails. Ugh, my fingernails. That manicure that I had recieved six hours earlier? I look down at my hands and see that my nails actually looked better Friday when I looked at them in horror and picked up the phone to make Saturday morning's appointment.

I blame all of this on Smith & Hawken and their damn Terrarium catalog.