No, not a rant about erectile dysfunction.
Ye gods. Tis the time of year that I start seeing dark green, glossy tendrils working their way up through the warming earth of my back yard. Yay spring! Are they wild onions?
No, they are not. They are sleepydick, *Ornithogalum umbellatum*, a horrible invasive plant from Europe. Oh, they are deceptively pretty. That’s why we didn’t take the nuclear option the first year we lived here. “Aw, look at the pwetty harbingers of Spring! Yay Spring! I love flowers! Let’s go have sex!”
Fast forward to last year. Uh oh. Didn’t we just have a few of those things last year? Why does it appear that we have several hundred now? So we attacked it with trowels and light hearts.
Hmmm…I hadn’t quite realized the scale of this. Every bulb of this crap I pull up (if I can even get a trowel down that far. These suckers live deep. You have to get the blade underneath them, and lever upward. Otherwise, the foliage just breaks off, and you lose the bulb, and you’re fucked.) seems to split into many smaller bulbs, all of which are sprouting independently. Well, heck, we were going till up this section anyway. I’ll just till the crap out of it, then we’ll go through and look for bulbs.
“Oh my God. Are you seeing this? Every handful of earth I pull up has multiple sleepydick bulbs in it! There must be thousands!”
At first, I expressed my displeasure by crushing bulbs between my fingers. Bad idea. They’re slimy. They’re filled with a pus-like goop that squirts all over you like a monstrous zit. They stink. AND, come to find out, they’re poisonous. As in, keep animals and children away from the plants, because all parts are potentially dangerous. Hooray!
“Well, sweetie, I know we’re trying to convert this into a native plant garden with minimal chemicals, but we’re obviously up against the wall here. Maybe we can just paint the shoots with glyphosate. That’ll get 'em!”
That did not get 'em. They loved it. They never even fucking WILTED.
OK. Nuclear option. We’re newspapering the entire area with multiple layers, and then thoroughly mulching. Take that, bitches! See you in the Spring!
(There was no time for sex. We were fighting the alien invasion.)
This year. Ho. Lee. Shit. What the heck have we done?! These goddamn things are EVERYWHERE. Six inches under the surface of the soil must be a seething, slimy, pulsing orgy of sleepydick bulbs, bumping against each other and shoving each other out of the way in some horrible, mindless vegetative urge to destroy my garden. It’s like something from Lovecraft. In the patches where we spent hours upon countless hours carefully sifting through every gram of soil, ruthlessly pulling out bulbs, there are now more shoots than ever. Thousands. Tens of thousands. They are coming up through cracks in the sidewalk. The brick walkway. Newspaper and mulch? Hah! A pathetically inadequate barrier.
Good God, how do you kill this vile, evil, horrible shit?! Quick, before I find it growing out of my kitchen floor, or my cat, or my bed.