I had an aha! moment. Don’t laugh. I am capable of an occasional aha. Strolling through Nordic Nursery in Newbury Park, I stared longingly at one of the large fountains and realized . . . garden nurseries should sell bathtubs.

Can’t you hear the pitch? “Excuse me, ma’am, (you old, hunched-over, jiggly, scatterbrained dizzy broad wearing a hat that looks like a petri dish), would you like some bubbles with your begonias?”

What happened to the upsell? Are the nursery clerks just too focused on Mother Earth? What about taking care of those who take care of Mother?

When you go to McDonald’s, they ask you if you want fries with your burger. At Best Buy, it’s a 10year warranty with a cellphone charger for your car. So why don’t they sell bathtubs with bags of mulch? It’s an obvious pitch.

“Do you want Epsom salts with your lumbago, er, tomato plants?” Seems logical to me. I throw the salts in with the roses and then a little in the tub. Martha Stewart taught me that. Gosh, she’s annoying.

’Tis the season to make merry in the garden, and Grumps is really feeling it . . . both the spirit of planting and a lust for the postplanting vodka tubby soak. As he makes his daily migration to Nordic Nursery, visions of marigolds dance in his head until he realizes he needs 10 flats of ’em to fill his beds. The dance becomes a plod. And by Halloween, he might be finished planting.

About a year ago, our visit to the Butchart Gardens in Vancouver inspired my sweet husband like Tiger Woods after a 5-iron attitude readjustment. He dreams about zinnias (Grumps not Tiger), waxes poetic about orchids, and we now have an irrigation system that makes the Aswan Dam look like weird Harold’s water pump in the back forty.

Our tomatoes might not grow bigger than a pea but they sure as heck won’t be thirsty.

So here’s my point. At the end of the day, after tossing around 3cubic-foot bags of Miracle-Gro, steer manure, organic magic, grow baby grow and a feast of garden steroids, it’s a little tough on the bod. Throw in a few hours waltzing with the rototiller and we’re in the dead bug position.

I should say Grumps is in the dead bug position. I’ve learned the best way to garden is “to put on a wide-brimmed straw hat and some old clothes. And with a hoe in one hand and a cold drink in the other, tell somebody else where to dig.”—Texas Bix Bender. I’m really good at this. Just ask Grumps.

“Honey”—always start with the sweet ask I say—“this one isn’t doing so well. Here’s a new 5-gallon lavender to put there. Good job!” Works like a charm. As long as I provide bartending skills at the end of the day, I get a trough pass.

By 4 p.m., we trudge through our routine like the White House chef after a state dinner. The tools are put in the shed, the empty sacks and containers are tossed in the recycle bin, and Grumps and his sciatic nerve slowly immerse themselves into a tub of steaming water.

Maybe he could modify that irrigation system to fill that tub a little faster.

Hey . . . wonder if the beans are up yet.

You can reach Elizabeth Kirby at kirby@theacorn.com or visit her blog at http://open.salon.com/ blog/elizabethkirby.