I've been especially blessed in my talent for killing plants. My ex once bought my a lovely succulent glass-menagerie-arrangement thingy for a birthday or an anniversary or something, because the guy who sold it to him assured him that cactus and aloe and jade were nigh unkillable. And I'd feel much worse about not being able to remember why he bought it for me if I hadn't killed the fucking thing in less than a week.
One of my best friends made a a series of window-boxes full of fresh herbs for my 27th birthday, and that I can remember which only goes to show you how much more important my girlfriends are to me than my lovers, but that doesn't really make a difference when it comes to harbingering death.
The herbs made it two weeks. I am the shittiest friend alive.
But then I moved to Vancouver and maybe it was the optimal climate but realistically it was the searing loneliness that drove me to try my hand at growing plants again. I started small, at Ikea, with two $0.99 houseplants no bigger than my palm. I loved those things like I'd loved everyone I left behind in Denver. I named them and spoke to them every day. I encouraged them to grow. I fed them extra nutrients and pruned them. And I'll be damned if those bitches didn't THRIVE.
Two Ikea houseplants turned into a Red Emerald Philodendrons that I rescued from the grocery store window and a jade that I found crammed in the back of a book store and countless other stray plants that we looking for a reject like me to take them home and save them.
I did kill the jade. Bygones.
The rest of them lived, and how they lived. I eventually moved into my little garden at my little townhouse and planted all sorts of things. I got so fancy as to plant for seasons. I even planted fruits. I got good. And then I had to move to Texas and they don't exactly let you bring plants across the border, so I had to leave them all behind.
It was arguably just as hard for me to watch all of my houseplants go home with the wife of my international truck driver as it was to say goodbye to the people I'd spent every single day with for three years. Which is just fucking ridiculous, but it's true.
I've started trying to collect a few houseplants for our new home, but I just haven't quite felt it yet. I haven't ventured out to make any new friends, either, so there's that. But sometimes in life, the right thing comes along from whence you least expect it and makes everything right again.
My son got a Chia Pet for Christmas. I think I'm in love with it.
I know it's only going to live for four weeks or something and then it will leave me like everything leaves me and I'll spiral into some horrid depression that can only be cured by chocolate ice cream and George Clooney, but for now I am slightly overly obsessed with this little miracle of dollar-store science. I water it every morning. I stroke it's newly-sprouted, well, um....sprouts? and I talk to it. I encourage it to 'be all you can be, little buddy!' and then I realize that I need to take up drinking or skeet shooting or something because I'M TALKING TO A FUCKING CHIA PET but I don't care, really. I'm giving something life again, and that's what I've been missing.
AH-HA. *cue moment of clarity*
So it's either talk to the Chia Pet like a crazy woman, or have another baby. And move into a shoe.