I have a houseplant that will not die.
You know me. I am a paradoxically enthusiastic, yet laissez faire, gardener. Nothing makes me happier than puttering around the Nine One Four's perennial flower beds and puzzling out the mysteries of attempting to grow vegetables at When Pigs Fly Farm. I'm content. As long as everyone behaves themselves.
By extension, therefore, one might assume I have the same affinity for houseplants and that we have a house full of happy orchids, spider plants and butterfly palms.
Hell no. Hate houseplants. Hate 'em. Because they hate me.
Most houseplants wilt the moment they see me. Orchids pause dramatically, quiver ever so slightly, then gracefully keel over dead in my presence. And, when not dying, my houseplants of the past have attracted tiny black flying bugs whose sole raison d'etre appears to be the need to occupy my nasal passages en masse.
And so it was with great trepidation that I accepted a dainty African violet with light lavender blossoms as a hostess gift from my sister-in-law, Milady Poophead back in January.
I looked down on the little plant, did a mental eye-roll and whispered, "Suckahhhhhhhhhh. You're toast."
The African violet chose to ignore that last remark.
The damn plant still lives. Nay, it THRIVES.
Forget to water it for 10 days? No problem. It just sprouts a couple of new leaves. Leave for weekend with heat turned down to 50? No problem. More new leaves. No plant food? More and more new leaves.
Needless to say, it has almost doubled in size.
And so we've settled into an almost comfortable routine: Me, sort of neglecting the little guy but still circling around every few days to brush the dog hair (don't judge) off its burgeoning crop of leaves and splash a little water here and there. The African violet, sprouting upward and outward like it was living in freakin' Jurassic Park.
And every once and awhile. Just here and there. On occasion. I swear I hear it softly whisper "Suckahhhhhhhh" as I pass by.