THE PLANT THAT WOULDN'T DIE

One of the first domesticated acts I participated in upon marriage was the deceptively simple act of growing a plant. I don't know why I decided to associate greenery with domestication, but here's a possible scenario:

Marriage 

Baby

Michael Jackson

Zombie

Worms

Plants?

So I purchased a large houseplant even though hubby wasn't too keen on this wife's new endeavor to spend $ on a cause that would not be profitable nor guaranteed. I relied on 3 simple, reasonable justifications to get me through hubby's disapproval. 1) This plant could basically thrive on its own in a secluded desert cave. 2) I bought it at Ikea- meaning it was cheap... er. 3) It had awesomely sharp, exotic-looking leaves... which... were... really really... ridiculously good looking?

Really really ridiculously good looking (see Zoolander)

Incurring numerous cuts and permanent spine damage, I managed to get it into the back seat of my suddenly "uneconomical, inconvenient, ridiculous, and worst-decision-of-my-life 2-door coupe" to haul it back home. The plant was so heavy and awkward to carry I had to resort to a korean grandma kimchi squat with a sideways waddle, and endure the pokes of its lethally sharp pseudo-exotic leaves into my eyeballs as I made my way to the front door in three step increments, the whole time praying for invisibility from all witnesses.

After the theatrics of getting my plant indoors, I was excited to begin this new adventure of plant-growing. Who knew? Maybe I had the elusive green-thumb, a hidden skill and capacity for horticulture passed down from generation to generation from a long line of South Korean farmers. I was going to be so good at this that my home was going to turn into not only an indoor botanical garden, but a freaking jungle with trees and vines and wild birds flying through my open window just to perch on them. It was going to be that awesome.

That jungle is so awesome

People were going to look at my plant-raising skills and say, "wow, she's a good wife." Don't ask how that even makes sense. Nevertheless, I tended to my plant eagerly with this vision of complete success, and hopes of much good-wife kudos.

But whatever fumes were emanating from the Yucca plant made me develop delusions of grandeur. I boasted enthusiastically to hubby that I knew by way of zen, chi, feng shui, karma, or tae bo tai chi- what my plant needed, how much, and when, from where, by whom, and why. I also scoffed heartily at the notion of reading instructions on how to care for something as easy and novice as a mere simple house plant. A tinkle of water here, a smattering of sunlight there- soon The Circle of Life song was echoing through my head all day long (see The Lion King).

I will now attempt telepathic communication

Your plant leaves tickle my nose and bring a smile to my face

This color looks great on you, plant!

But then, completely unexpectedly, my plant- lost- its- mojo. I cursed the evil gnomes (surely they were the cause) as I witnessed my exotic plant leaves wilting and dying before my very eyes. I absolutely could not allow such an atrocity to exist, especially in lieu of my new found inner monk/baboon. So I disposed of the offensive leaves immediately. All of them. Pretty soon I realized that my look-alike exotic-tropical Ikea-n plant was now very obviously short one too many leaves. Finding a more flattering, less bare position was not feasible no matter which way I turned it. Alas, my plant had become a stick with a few pathetic, sickly leaves dangling off of it by the time I was done with it.

Searching deep within my mother-nature instincts, I sought out an answer. More frequent waterings were initiated, with longer sun exposure times, and faster, higher-pitched Circle of Life repetitions in my head.

Eventually (around the time there were 2 brown leaves left on my entire plant), the weeks of self-denial shattered like young Simba's heart when his father, Mufasa, was killed in the stampede due to Simba's own foolishness. I panicked, wailed a pitiful tune to hubby, and resorted to my online resource for everything- Google. Researching extensively about my plant's symptoms, I was hard-pressed to find a proper diagnosis in order to remedy my quickly dissolving confidence, pride, and failure to my South Korean farmer ancestry.

This is also how I learned about horrible, grotesque rotting plant diseases.

Feeling as if my plant could erupt in pustules at any moment, I put this dying/diseased/mold and worm-infected plant out onto the balcony. I developed mental images of it giving birth to spiders and centipedes and velociraptors which would devour my rotting corpse of a plant, mutate a brain of sorts, and overtake its roots to carry out an evil master plan against its incompetent owner.

I was so horrified I refused to look outside at my failure for one whole year. The later it got into the year, the more I was convinced that it was a monstrosity of epic proportions I would have to call in an exterminator for. Preferably someone equipped with a ginormous flame thrower.

Eventually I garnered enough courage to venture outside into my self-induced nightmare- to observe the very plant I had left to fend for itself against the elements- the very plant I had left alone to basically grow its 5 mutated heads then wither and die before it could kill me in my sleep.

Instead it had the audacity to grow new, young, green, spiky leaves.

I quote myself: "This plant could basically thrive on its own in a secluded desert cave."

I give up. From now on out... fake plants.

Fake Ikea plant

Fake grass pen holder