Some plants in our house are prospering quite well, and seem to be in perfect health.
I don’t know what to do with them.
This is a … well, I don’t know what it is, but it’s growing. Isn’t that a common line in horror movies?
I’ve never had a healthy, growing plant before. They’re getting so big, some needed to be transplanted into larger pots — something I never thought I’d have to deal with. Not that we don’t have other pots: I’ve got a whole graveyard full, piled in a corner of the garage. A plant transplant has never been an issue for me, because there’s no point in transplanting something dead.
Usually, our plants look more like a limb that got torn out of the tree by a storm and ended up broken and crushed in the front yard. Like this one, from last week.
At the moment they’re enjoying the outside weather, but they’ll come in for the winter and huddle shivering in a corner, just like I do. One is an aloe plant, and yes: You can use those to treat burns. We have a little experience there. Another one is a vine thingy that likes to wander, and there’s a tall, stiff-leaked whatchamacallit that just sits there, getting taller. Plants are a good thing: They filter the air, provide oxygen, look good, and seldom have to go out for a walk.
We do have a lot of flowering plants in our yard. Well, most people call them weeds.
So I should be happy, but frankly, it’s freaking me out. I’ve been having nightmares of the plants wanting revenge for their dead comrades. Soon they’re taking over the house: sending roots all over, turning lights on and off, running up the utility bills. I wake up screaming, “They’re alive! THEY’RE ALIVE! Close the fridge door, they’re letting the cold air out! Don’t touch my Mountain Dew!”
Okay, so my dreams aren’t all that exciting.
I guess I just have to get used to it. Usually the only thing that prospers in our house is the mouse population, but this could be … say. You don’t suppose the mice are amateur gardeners?