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I kill houseplants. I don't do it on purpose, it just...happens. I am the Black Death of green things. It's not pretty.
And yet, people will insist on giving me potted plants for my apartment. "Foolproof," they'll say. "Even you can't screw it up." And to that I say, "You wanna make a bet?"
It's not a bad way to make a few easy bucks. Still, I can't help but look at those brown, withered leaves and feel a flash of guilt, like a serial killer who occasionally glimpses the error of her sociopathic ways. So when one of my employers doomed a paperwhite bulb by giving it to me as a Christmas gift, I decided to give it my all. I watered it everyday, on a regular schedule. As it turned out, this was precisely what I was not supposed to do. (Ah, killing with kindness. Not new territory for the women in my family.)
After a bit of research (my mother rolled her eyes at me and mumbled something about accidental postnatal baby swapping), I decided to sprinkle a bit of water into the pot once a day or so and otherwise ignore it. For weeks, it did not die. It didn't grow, either, but I still counted this as a victory.
Then my mother bought bananas. Not because she wanted to eat them, but because she felt like she should want to eat them - which is why they're still sitting, untouched, on my kitchen counter. I would eat them myself, but they've long ago passed the admittedly slim ripeness window in which I can enjoy a banana. So there they sit, brown and spotty and pretty much as depressing a sight as a few pieces of fruit can hope to achieve. Next to them sit the paperwhite bulb, which a week ago exploded into a towering monstrosity of lush green plantiness. I swear, I turn my back on it for less than a second and when I look again it's another few inches taller. I'm beginning to fear for my life.
(Obviously, death by houseplant would be the karmically appropriate demise for someone like myself. Also, I think it's growing jaws.)
And a meme! Because I just can't help meself.
And yet, people will insist on giving me potted plants for my apartment. "Foolproof," they'll say. "Even you can't screw it up." And to that I say, "You wanna make a bet?"
It's not a bad way to make a few easy bucks. Still, I can't help but look at those brown, withered leaves and feel a flash of guilt, like a serial killer who occasionally glimpses the error of her sociopathic ways. So when one of my employers doomed a paperwhite bulb by giving it to me as a Christmas gift, I decided to give it my all. I watered it everyday, on a regular schedule. As it turned out, this was precisely what I was not supposed to do. (Ah, killing with kindness. Not new territory for the women in my family.)
After a bit of research (my mother rolled her eyes at me and mumbled something about accidental postnatal baby swapping), I decided to sprinkle a bit of water into the pot once a day or so and otherwise ignore it. For weeks, it did not die. It didn't grow, either, but I still counted this as a victory.
Then my mother bought bananas. Not because she wanted to eat them, but because she felt like she should want to eat them - which is why they're still sitting, untouched, on my kitchen counter. I would eat them myself, but they've long ago passed the admittedly slim ripeness window in which I can enjoy a banana. So there they sit, brown and spotty and pretty much as depressing a sight as a few pieces of fruit can hope to achieve. Next to them sit the paperwhite bulb, which a week ago exploded into a towering monstrosity of lush green plantiness. I swear, I turn my back on it for less than a second and when I look again it's another few inches taller. I'm beginning to fear for my life.
(Obviously, death by houseplant would be the karmically appropriate demise for someone like myself. Also, I think it's growing jaws.)
And a meme! Because I just can't help meself.