I have this whole entry in my head about how I was too harsh and stereotypey in regards to the behavior of male climbers, but lately our Crone Climbers group has been plagued by one guy who really feels we could all benefit from his expertise. Y'know, his "hands-on" expertise, even though we can all out-climb him. Luckily I personally have not been grabbed yet, but that particular man needs to note that my climbing shoes have reinforced stiff rubber points on the toes, mainly to help me stick to the routes better. Mainly.

Anyway, ignore me. I'm fine.

So yeah, gardening.

That was a segueway.

El Yo and I, now proud homeowners, have been plotting (that's a gardening joke) a hosta takeover (that's a really bad gardening joke) of our back and front yards. Very little has been done in this arena, so much so that someone actually threw wooden boards over the earth in places. Why? I'm not sure. Decoration? Large-scale earthworm-smothering operations? I have no idea. So we've spent some time wandering around the yard picking up errant rubber balls and model rockets, planks of wood, bricks and cinderblock halves, and the compost heap is primed and smoking.

There are also seedlings in the sunroom. Kind of. There were more seedlings in the sunroom, but it turns out that leeks? Kind of delicate. Kind of burny, in fact. And after we put a thermometer in there, we found that the sunroom on a clear day runs between 100 and 129 degrees F. The leeks were totally unimpressed and expired in a cloud of whiny brownness. But the good news there is that those temperatures are apparently manna to tomato and basil seedlings. The peppers are still undecided, poking half in and half out of the starter soil, and the mint is totally asleep, tucked down in its little peatcups, snoring softly in one corner.

I know! Slacker vegetation! Of the kind that everyone else tries to get rid of, yet I am so attached to it that I hoped to hedge my bets with the pre-season mintlets. Apparently not.

I even have backup backup mint, in case the backup seeds hit the ground and bounce, or are eaten by squirrels, or hoovered up by spaceships. I don't care. One way or another I'm having my luxurious bed of mint. I don't know why. I don't know if it's the soft leaves, or the bedlike quality of the full plant, or the fact that once it gets a toehold in the ground it's pretty unstoppable, like a cocktail-friendly kudzu. I admire its tenacity.

We also took the unprecedented (for us) step of testing the pH of our soil. It's a little acidic, with no nitrogen, and surplus potassium and potash. Awesome. I have no idea what that all means. Why is there never a soil scientist around when you need one? Those people are always upside down in rivers when you actually need them to listen to your compost or snort a line of dirt, or however they do their complicated measuring business.

Hopefully though, the above measurements mean little to nothing to the mint, and it can get down to business. Amazon is bringing me the revised and more complete Gardening for Dummies book, so I should know soon enough. I hope there are good cartoons in the dirt-snorting section.

Julep, anyone?