Brown Thumb

Okay, so I'm feeling a little down tonight, and IMing with a faraway friend, who has (possibly only half-jokingly) suggested I come be his girlfriend for a while. And while the idea of being a kept woman has its appeal, I can unfortunately not meet his needs. You see, my primary responsibilities would include housekeeping... and plant care.

Now, anyone who knows me well is already rolling on the floor in hysterics over that prospect, but for the uninformed, I'll explain why hilarity ensues at the mention of housekeeping and plant care. For one thing, a housekeeper I am NOT. Cole actually finds it quite amusing when I have a chore at his place, and after examining something from multiple angles, approach him with a sheepish smile and ask how to work it. (Cases in point, a short ladder and a TV tray. Don't ask.)

But the plants... now THOSE are the real funny story. You would think that I would have a gift with plants; Nana was a genius with roses, and they still bloom bright in Gram's yard. But noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo... instead, I had to inherit my mother's Brown Thumb. Yep, the opposite of a green thumb. Mama pulled some pretty tricky moves. Oh sure, there are a handful of people in this world that can kill cactuses or ivy like she did. Hurricane Miah managed to kill an ivy in our apartment - between her and I, the poor thing didn't stand a chance. But Mama? Mama achieved something that few on this planet have ever done.

She killed a plastic fern.

Yes. A plastic fern.

The fronds turned brown and fell off. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. And those, dear friends, are the genes I inherited. Oh, I inherited some fun ones too. The singing gene. The appreciation for purposely bad and/or silly movies gene. The dancing gene. The booty gene. But why, oh why, did I have to inherit the planticide gene?!?!?!