The Hortisexual

I am a hortisexual American.

My wife puts up with it. My daughters suffer me. My friends just ask for advice.

The seeds of my infatuation with the Goddess Flora were first sown back in the day when I was still being called to dinner by the name Johnnie. Since those earliest flings with Jersey tomatoes I’ve had my way with many a plot of virgin garden soil.

A hortisexual is to plants and gardening what a metrosexual is to grooming and clothes.

I have no will power against the insatiable desire to acquire annuals and perennials. I can’t pass a garden center on the way home from work without stopping for just a quick look around. The lady behind the check out counter has seen my type. She knowingly taunts me, “How about one more for your cart.”

Oh well, it’s buy 2 get 1 free. What’s the harm in one more hosta for the road?

The other day the UPS guy left a box of seedlings at the front door. Yet I can’t recall why I ordered them from the catalog back in February.

It doesn’t stop with the nursery candy. Shelves sag with books about gardens and gardening. The nightstand is stacked with dog-eared copies of Horticulture, Fine Gardening and, yes, I’ll admit it, Martha Stewart Living. The shed out back overflows with pots, terra cotta and glazed. Tools: how many trowels can a person with just two hands possibly use???

While others of my gender eagerly await the arrival of Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue to thaw the late winter chill, I’m watching the mailbox for the first nursery catalogs of the season.

OK, that’s an exaggeration.

Becoming trained as a Master Gardener took my affliction to a whole new level.

Never before have I been so sensorially aware of every tree, shrub, and flower around me.

Lately, when I suggest a walk around our neighborhood, my wife and ‘tween daughter are “busy.” Could it be my habit of calling out botanical names of the flora along the way?

I don’t just take time to stop and smell the roses. I check for black spot.

Last summer my family visited more public gardens than amusement parks. Every visit to Longwood and Chanticleer left me green with plant envy.

You get the idea: gardening is my passion. Er, I mean after my wife and daughters.

So if you share these symptoms (or you want to be infected too), log on to my blog once in a while for a download of some Master Gardener 411, mixed in with a few stories and observations.

BTW, blogging is a “contact” sport. Click Comments and get into the game . . . even if just to tell me I’m full of composted manure!