Okay, to start with a couple of facts: (1) Everyone knows that the plant pornography of high style horticultural magazines bears no resemblance to the really dirty stuff that happens in the garden and (2) many bloggers have humorously ridiculed the crap that American marketing masters would have you believe that you need in order to attain gardening self-actualization.
Although this turf has been well-trod, I still had a problem when, at the end of a weekend working in the garden, I sat down to relax with an iced drink and the latest edition of Town and Country. Yes, it was Town and Country, so what should I expect? But, hey already. Between the articles about emerald and sapphire floral brooches and society equestriennes was this page of gardening "inspiration." So this is what folks enjoy when gardening in a parallel universe.
In contrast, here are the suburban highlights of my weekend around the back quarter acre. First, I shoveled rotting compost. It smelled, it was soggy, it was not yet ready to be used. And yes, that $685 pink silk shirt would look fabulous, darling, polka-dotted with decomposing plant muck.
And I pruned a portion of the climbing rose. Cue cursing, sweat, and bloody cuts. Geez, I forgot to focus my mental energy towards attaining the pruned perfection of those lollypop-like boxwood topiaries. Dang!
Then there was the dead mourning dove that needed to be removed from its impalement on the trellis. Perhaps that set of cute little hand tools could double as surgical implements for the post-mortem extraction?
I guess that proves that the suburbs are so very different from the town and country. But we all know that.