I don't kill plants
Greetings friends and family in frostier locales,
My oh my does it "kick" to be a Vancourite these days. Since the crack of dawn on Wednesday, squinty-eyed residents of the Left Coast have lowered their umbrellas, and raised their chins to the sky. And upon doing so, radiant glorious warmth kissed their faces, like a mother's everything-will-be-okay hug on one of those tough-fourth-grade days. Behold, the snowcapped mountains have reappeared from their hibernation behind the fog and the bustling city has acquired a little hop-skip in its step. With green grass, blooming flowers, full trees, and coffee-goers sipping tall non-fat no whip half-sweet sugar-free lattes on sunny street patios, this place, my friends, is THE place to be. Word has it that Saturday won't be bucking the trend either, meaning tomorrow it will also be 19 degrees warmer here than it is in Ottawa, like it was today. And that, I suppose is where my bragging rites end.
By the way this (as well as the new intersection pic on our site) was the view from our apartment window yesterday afternoon.
Alright, onto other business. The agenda, if you will. My life (which I fear will soon span a quarter century) is peppered, likely as yours is, with embarrassing moments, less-than-flattering experiences, and down-right unappealing aspects of my character. I admit this openly and freely, but on pondering the stories that have been told about me over my life, I feel now, in my most wisest year yet, that a disturbing number of these stories have been largely fabricated and as such do not match with my recollection of my past. I would like to set one of them straight here. Others I will leave for my wiser years to contest - this includes Coady's claim that I "touch oil to see if the stove pan is ready", and Neil's claim that I "once got my toe stuck in a laundry basket for fun" and Nat's claim that I "developed a permanent and unsightly non-stop runny nose for the greater portion of the 1980s". While I do not recall any of these events, today I aim to debunk this one: I am a plant killer. Long ago, a good friend leveled this accusation at me, pointing at my brown, droopy, wilting botanical pets as if that was supposed to serve as suffice evidence of my debauchery of care-giving.
Now, we can debate the details of the case - namely my defense that 1) my roommates killed them, not I; 2) that scholarly stress temporarily put me in a state of mental instability and that I can not therefore be held responsible for my (in)actions and that 3) contrary to popular (read: media-induced) belief, planticide was the real cause of death, not any particular deed on my part. One could also site the flourishing succulents which were under my care (ok, Emma's care, but nonetheless, my emotional care) at Springland Drive as further testament to my non-plant killing capability. But as we all know (as I combine two cliches in one sentence) talk is cheap and a picture is worth a thousand words. So behold, the plants of Oak and 12th.
So as not to be entirely bias, the fern was given to me three days ago by Nat; the bamboo are immortal; and plant #3 just recently made a come-back from a near-death experience (living on the edge). What a thrill-seeker. But even in light of those facts, plant #4 has thrived under my care. He reports that our apartment is a "a lovely, caring, and intellectually stimulating environment which has greatly improved my quality of life." On another occasion, the plant remarked "...quite frankly, the TLC at Oak and 12th is top notch."
I will leave the final judgment to the jury.
Sima
My oh my does it "kick" to be a Vancourite these days. Since the crack of dawn on Wednesday, squinty-eyed residents of the Left Coast have lowered their umbrellas, and raised their chins to the sky. And upon doing so, radiant glorious warmth kissed their faces, like a mother's everything-will-be-okay hug on one of those tough-fourth-grade days. Behold, the snowcapped mountains have reappeared from their hibernation behind the fog and the bustling city has acquired a little hop-skip in its step. With green grass, blooming flowers, full trees, and coffee-goers sipping tall non-fat no whip half-sweet sugar-free lattes on sunny street patios, this place, my friends, is THE place to be. Word has it that Saturday won't be bucking the trend either, meaning tomorrow it will also be 19 degrees warmer here than it is in Ottawa, like it was today. And that, I suppose is where my bragging rites end.
By the way this (as well as the new intersection pic on our site) was the view from our apartment window yesterday afternoon.
Alright, onto other business. The agenda, if you will. My life (which I fear will soon span a quarter century) is peppered, likely as yours is, with embarrassing moments, less-than-flattering experiences, and down-right unappealing aspects of my character. I admit this openly and freely, but on pondering the stories that have been told about me over my life, I feel now, in my most wisest year yet, that a disturbing number of these stories have been largely fabricated and as such do not match with my recollection of my past. I would like to set one of them straight here. Others I will leave for my wiser years to contest - this includes Coady's claim that I "touch oil to see if the stove pan is ready", and Neil's claim that I "once got my toe stuck in a laundry basket for fun" and Nat's claim that I "developed a permanent and unsightly non-stop runny nose for the greater portion of the 1980s". While I do not recall any of these events, today I aim to debunk this one: I am a plant killer. Long ago, a good friend leveled this accusation at me, pointing at my brown, droopy, wilting botanical pets as if that was supposed to serve as suffice evidence of my debauchery of care-giving.
Now, we can debate the details of the case - namely my defense that 1) my roommates killed them, not I; 2) that scholarly stress temporarily put me in a state of mental instability and that I can not therefore be held responsible for my (in)actions and that 3) contrary to popular (read: media-induced) belief, planticide was the real cause of death, not any particular deed on my part. One could also site the flourishing succulents which were under my care (ok, Emma's care, but nonetheless, my emotional care) at Springland Drive as further testament to my non-plant killing capability. But as we all know (as I combine two cliches in one sentence) talk is cheap and a picture is worth a thousand words. So behold, the plants of Oak and 12th.
So as not to be entirely bias, the fern was given to me three days ago by Nat; the bamboo are immortal; and plant #3 just recently made a come-back from a near-death experience (living on the edge). What a thrill-seeker. But even in light of those facts, plant #4 has thrived under my care. He reports that our apartment is a "a lovely, caring, and intellectually stimulating environment which has greatly improved my quality of life." On another occasion, the plant remarked "...quite frankly, the TLC at Oak and 12th is top notch."
I will leave the final judgment to the jury.
Sima
posted by Sima at 5:54 PM
5 Comments:
I've expelled healthier growths from my colon.
sima, you have admitted to me that you are a plant killer. You know what your defense was? "I don't have time for plants - I have Jon."
Emma
Ok.
I have a witness in Anika. You did in fact get your toe stuck in a laundry basket. The "for fun part", thats unconfirmed, but the getting the toe stuck in the laundry basket (it was actually a hamper), that's pretty much fact now.
I have confirmed evidence that those are plastic.
Yah? Well...well I think YOU'RE plastic Peejay.
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