Green Land

OH MY GOODNESS! You poor dear! Sit down! Sit down!!

I know... it's crazy. It's WEDNESDAY, and it's been over a week since my last blog post. How did you survive?!

(I know. You probably ate lots of bacon and drank lots of rum and got through just fine without me. But humor me, dear. It's been a long week.)

First, I must apologize. The busy nature of my schedule notwithstanding, I've been fighting against this inexplicable bout of writer's block lately. Which is frustrating. I want so badly to share witticisms and fun thoughts with you all, but find myself zapped of creative energies enough to bring these intents to fruition. But NO LONGER! Today, I break the block and *make* myself find something to tell you about. 

What an exciting week it's been! Last Wednesday I packed myself up and got myself together and shipped off for Lands Unknown for my very first ever historical recreation event. (Recreation, as in fun. Not reenactment. We're not doing anything over again - we're starting fresh, because we're cool like that.) I exercised muscles I forgot that I had, made friends I didn't know could be so cool and had an all around glamorous time under a completely different name that was just totally awesome. And it was good.

But all good things must come to an end... As did my adventure. And with the end of my adventure came my re-immersion into 

But then, upon my arrival back in the office, I found I had forgotten to do something before my departure...

Water the plants.

I wish I could tell you I lived in Green Land. No, not the country... I mean the state of being. That happy place where so many of my cohorts can go to commune with nature and bring forth shoots of new life from dry, hardened dirt.

But I do not live in Green Land. I don't visit there, either. I don't call, text, or smoke signal. For the most part... I pretend it doesn't exist.

Why?

Because I kill plants.

No, I don't think you understand.

I KILL THEM. They see me coming, and they just *die.* 

Now this is an unfortunate habit for an administrative person. 

I sit at the Reception desk of my dear office. And the Reception desk is disgustingly close to all communal company areas... Like the kitchen, the copy rooms, and the area where clients congregate when they step off of the elevator. It is the last where I find myself standing, hands on hips as I survey the carnage this afternoon.

I forgot to water the plants before I went on vacation. The current state of affairs finds me gazing at greenery in states of disrepair ranging from slightly-wilty-around-the-edges to mostly-yellow-with-just-a-little-green to back-to-becoming-one-with-the-dirt-from-whence-they-sprung. This means that one of two things could have happened:

1) Some kind soul took notice of their plight and watered them for me on Friday afternoon. Then another kind soul, not wary of the actions of the first, did the same. And now they're drowned.

2) No one has touched the blasted things since I left.

I'm leaning more towards the second on this list. The droopy leaves and absent puddles of water lead me to think that these poor critters are famished, dying for a drink from the wellspring of the bathroom. They cry out to me, "Please, Sunny! Help us! We're dying!"

But that's a problem.

I could water them. But they're so dry right now that I risk OVER-watering. And that's a horrible, fatal thought in and of itself. The oozing, dripping puddles that leak from the bottom of the planters and pool across my desk, the windowsill and my printerstand* wreak havoc on my workspace and my calm. Water stains soak across the paperwork that litters my desk, and inevitably I find myself cussing at an empty roll of paper towels long before the mess is tidied up.

I don't set out to be a horrible plant mommy. It didn't happen overnight. As a child, I helped tend our vegetable gardens and could (for the most part) tell the difference between baby corn stalks and baby pigweed. However, as I grew older, my abilities lessened in direct proportion to the amount of time my father had to help me with my green endeavors.

It is a conundrum that does not go unnoticed. For my high school graduation, a good friend gave me a wonderful plant encyclopedia that, by rights, should help me grow anything out of plain old dirt. But it doesn't happen. I soak the dirt tablets, I set up the pots, I push in the seeds and sometimes can even get little sprouts to spring up... but then they collapse in a glorious blaze that would make Bon Jovi stand up and take notice. Tender shoots curling, browning and disintegrating back to their origins in a catastrophic meltdown. 

Every. Single. Time.

Actually, I had the opportunity to perform a study in which I tested my hypothesis on the speed at which a plant would die with my care, and without.

A few months ago, I graduated from college. Throughout a series of honors ceremonies, I found myself gifted with six potted plants and one cut arrangement. It spoke volumes to my abilities as, one by one, the plants gave up the fight and stopped trying for me. At the end of the graduation ceremonies, I boxed up all six potted plants and sent them to live with my mother (or, those whom I had attempted to care for and killed entirely, to be thrown away by my mother onto the farm where they could be given the burial they deserve). At the end of the ceremonies, the only flowers that still looked halfway decent were the three-week-old gerbera daisies in a vase on my kitchen counter.

It just boggles me. Why are plants such a necessity in the office environment, or indoors at all? In the movie "Music and Lyrics" with Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore, Grant's character states that "Plants make women comfortable." This is hardly the case. Comfort does not spring forth from dead vines curling and crusting around my desk leg. Don't argue health benefits either, as if my measly fichus is going to offset the reams of paper we throw away every day. And as for the aesthetics? Hah. Don't make me laugh. 

The real question is this: How many receptionists cry out in frustration at the realization of the plight of their surrounding vegetation, and the further understanding that their best efforts will almost certainly mean an untimely herbal demise? I'm certain I can't be the only one.

*Not a smart move.