Save The Plants: Don't entrust them to Erin

A friend of mine entrusted a lot of her possessions to my husband and me. She left her bike, her computer, her cats' toys and some random boxes in our basement for a month while she was, well, between homes. This past week, she also entrusted me with her plants.

This isn't a big deal to normal people, but I think she should've paid more attention to the vibes that my home eminates. "DON'T GIVE HER A PLANT. SHE KILLS PLANTS. GOOD WITH CHILDREN. GOOD WITH DOG. NOT PLANTS."

It's alive now, but I have no doubt that another week in my care, and we'd find its wilted body dragging itself to the kitchen sink screaming "waaa-ter," or else we'd see one plant hand the other a life raft, as I tend to go to extremes with that whole watering thing.

During college, my roommate and I would buy a plant every semester, it seemed. We'd name them, tend to them for about a week, then she'd tend to them while I tended to forget we owned Harry or Bob, or whatever its name happened to be. They'd die, and we'd sit there, shaking our heads, wondering why a plant that required light wouldn't like it in our sub-zero apartment on the third floor underneath some trees? And we almost died from the black mold in that place. We're fairly certain that's what did in our sophomore year plant. Charles? I don't remember.

Dave was surprised she entrusted us with the plants for a while.

"Wow, she left us her plants to watch? Doesn't she know about you?" my husband asked.

"Yeah, I guess not. I don't think she knows how many plants are dead because of me."

"You don't just kill them. You commit planticide."

Sigh. And this is the part of the blog post where I see my friend run across the office, grab my keys from my coat pocket and go save her plants before, God help us, it's too late.