By Brooke Rees
I love floral prints—so much so that if you removed floral patterned clothing from my wardrobe, I would be left with one black turtleneck and an accompanying pair of mom jeans I bought to dress like my style icon, Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson in THAT photo (you know the one). I wear flower crowns, have metal straws, use reusable bags, and own several pairs of overalls. I’ve checked all the boxes for someone whose apartment should look like they are in the third round of Jumanji, head to toe covered in aesthetic plant life and with Robin Williams unshaven in the corner. (Oh how I wish both of those were true.) As much as I would love to be a plant mom, it seems that the court would almost certainly not grant me custody, given the track record that I am about to describe:
As a college going away present from one of my high school friends, I was gifted a terrarium with several small cactus plants. Virtually indestructible, right? Unfortunately for them, my powers know no bounds. Within the first few weeks, I had completely killed all of them. Instead of a green thumb, I inadvertently gave them a green middle finger. I thought the rules for plants were pretty easy: water and sun. Turns out, too much water, especially for a cactus, will also kill them. So much for the girls on Instagram constantly reminding me to stay hydrated. I wonder if their information on tummy-flattening teas could also be untrue? (Nah, probably not.)
Apparently my bloodthirsty desires had not yet been satiated, for I continued on this journey of owning plants. This time, I branched outside to the wider succulent universe and had maybe about six succulents going at one time. By the end of the semester, there were no survivors. To assure readers that this was not a flaw with the plants, but rather with me, I will share that one of my friends, Marc, a plant whisperer, rescued one of the fallen succulents leaves and successfully regrew an entirely new plant. It seems like the key to plant success is simply to no longer be in my presence, a phenomenon shared by all my ex-boyfriends (we can pretend they exist).
Basically, you get the picture. I’m most definitely on the FBI’s Most Wanted list at this very moment. I am simply documenting this in case the plants decide they want revenge a-la M. Night Shyamalan’s cinematic masterpiece, The Happening. Should that be the case, I would like to now share with the world my current hostages… sorry, I mean “house plants”, that are somehow alive (in one form or another).
This is Pam the Palm. She was the first plant that we bought for our apartment. I did not yet realize that actually being near sunlight would be an important factor in survival. Thus, Pam died a quick death. I share her story because it led to the purchase of another plant (this time fake), which we named “Eternal Pam” in her memory. May she grace any dark, uninhabitable corner in the apartment that we choose.
In loving memory, Pam the Palm
June 2020 - IDK maybe 3 weeks later?
Gone, but not forgotten because we immediately replaced you.
This is Marcus the Ficus. Marcus is the underdog. After six months in my presence, he is definitely not thriving, but he is surviving. Marcus is also a dramatic b*tch and will droop his leaves/ wilt the second he’s thirsty. Honestly, this might be the only reason he is currently alive, because that’s also the only reason I remember to water him. Good job Marcus—keep hanging in there.
Eugene: This is Eugene and I have no idea what kind of plant he is. Honestly, Eugene is our forgotten child. I was given him as a gift for my birthday. I like to think of him as a “giving tree” because my mom stuck a bunch of gift cards to various stores around him. Eugene is our least loved plant, and it shows. We had given him several names and had forgotten each one, so Eugene is very likely not his birth name. And at one point, Eugene was sitting on the radiator a little too long, and the ends of his leaves started to burn like the fiery plant hell I will be sent to. I took him off the radiator, gave him water, and set him in front of a different window. Time will only tell if Eugene’s fortunes will change.
In summary, I want to be a plant mom but I’m destined to be a plant serial killer. How many more will have to die before I finally give up? I’m not sure, but at least until I’ve had my chlorophyll.
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