Outsourced. It's an easy word to say, comprehend even. It's a hard word to grasp in concept, you know...when you've been the Outsourcee. I find myself quickly approaching the first anniversary of my Outsourcedness. It's a strange matter.
Like the 12 steps of AA, Outsourcing takes you through a myriad of emotions: anger, bitterness, numbness, and, if you're lucky...hope.
I found the hope in my new found job as Domestic CEO. I made a choice to tackle that like I tackle most everything in my way in life; with zest and fervor (truly, the only thing I may love more than tackling is headbutting - but that's a whole different story). I hoped [there it is again] that this would be the best job of my life, and with all things, I like succeeding so I gave it my all. I cleaned my house as if I was possessed. I repaired things. I remodeled. I grew tomatoes.
Tomatoes. Yes?
No. Whooooooa, no.
A friend gave me hope [oh boy!] that I too, could have a garden. "Let's start small," I said. "I've killed everything I've grown except my husband and kids to date." I took a class. I ran to various stores to purchase supplies. I threw some seeds in peat and put them on my porch in the glorious sunlight to thrive and be fruitful.
They were rotated. And watered ["BE CAREFUL NOT TO OVERWATER!" I told myself]. And then, sweet Baby Jesus...they grew! AND GREW! I took pictures. I texted friends. I believe, I posted it in social media. I was proud. In the back of my mind I spit on my Outsourcer, "Let me go, will you? I'll show you how miraculous I am...I'm growing tomatoes!"
It came time to transfer my seedlings into my containers. I mixed soils and composts and fertilizers in my garage. I readied my containers with love and care. I chose their new homes with precision and calculation - paying heed that the deer that love my yard would not get to them. Moving day came and went. ...And so did my babies.
Everyday I would check them. "They're not growing." I'd water them. I'd beg them. I scoured the internet and books from the library to see what I'd done wrong. "...they're...not...growing..."
"No, No, NO! This can't be happening." After all, I had hope.
And as the days passed into those first crucial weeks, my hope, like those poor, poor tomato souls - died. The day I had the strength to pronounce their death, my neighbor witnessed something horrifying. He stood behind me for God knows how long, and watched as I swore at my failed attempt at gardening. He watched me beg, and I think I heard his snort when I finally offered them money and/or drugs if they. just. grew. I kicked their bucket - literally, not figuratively or metaphorically - and stomped away.
I let go of hope of homemade ketchup and spaghetti sauce and salsa and pizza sauce and fresh Caprese salads. I pouted. I. Was. Hopeless.
That is, until this Christmas. I gave my husband a composter. And my friend tells me, "Your tomatoes are going to LOVE his compost. You can do it this year...I know you can!" ...and I purchased some seeds.
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