I don’t want to be dramatic or anything, but I found something in my kitchen window today that was terrifying.
I’m not talking about the four hollow dead fly husks that crunched as I gathered them into my thin, waxy paper napkin.
Or the dust that’s no longer dusty and, instead, is devolving with residual kitchen grease into some sort of sticky glue-like substance that’s likely to self-animate and smother us all in our sleep.
I’m talking about this:
(sorry – deep breath)
It’s a tom…
(slow and steady, Beth)
It’s a tomato plant, you guys, and I don’t know quite how to tell you this, so I’m just going to take the plunge and get it all out there…
I know. I’m at a loss, too. I mean, obviously.
I got this plant – and another just like it – for Mother’s Day from my children.
I get plants for Mother’s Day every year from my children.
I’m starting to suspect that normal moms like plants. (Is that true? Do you like plants, moms?)
My mom likes plants.
My mom keeps plants alive, even.
And her plants produce food to nourish her body and blossoms to nourish her soul.
She’s, like, the Plant Whisperer.
I, on the other hand, am the Plant Killer.
As in, if the world ever needs a skilled Plant Assassin, then the world need look no further than me, for I am the Mad Scientist Plant Killing Super Ninja.
I kill plants in broad daylight and in the dead of night. I kill plants with malevolent neglect and solicitous, overzealous attention. I kill highly-placed political plants with legions of guards and top-notch protection details. And I kill brutal, back-alley, drug-dealing plants who’ve survived for years with their scrappy street savvy and networks of scuzzy informants.
I am the scary story that Plant Parents tell their sweet little Plant Children to frighten them into planty compliance. I am the Evil Stepmother – the Baba Yaga – of the plant world. Rigorously ruthless. Consistently cruel.
Plants shudder when they’re hauled, screaming and crying, into my killer’s den.
I’ve build my entire plant-killing empire on my unswerving reputation as plant poison, personified.
So now, perhaps, you’ll understand my dismay at being so publicly thwarted – humiliated – by this tomato plant that, for two whole weeks, has neither withered nor waned and then, in an in-your-face move that I can hardly ignore, audaciously blossomed.
As though it intends to do something really drastic like bear fruit.
It’s unconscionable. And I certainly can’t tolerate this kind of plant behavior in my house.