I have a black thumb. This is really sad because I love plants and would love to have them love me back. But they don’t.

When I lived in Florida, I had a beautiful bunch of tropical plants that thrived on my balcony, and I even managed to keep some poinsettias alive for, like, two years. But once I moved to the Pacific Northwest, forget it. I don’t know what my problem is or where I go wrong, but I manage to kill every houseplant that has misfortune of making into my domicile. It’s sad. I talk to them and apologize, and I feel like they’re like, “Dang, lady. You’re literally killing me. Shut UP.”

And then they die.

It’s sad, but I keep trying. My aloe recently croaked, but I have a really pretty snake plant that survived the winter in my dining room. I just realized last week I hadn’t watered it in forever and gave it a good drink of water in the kitchen sink. I think she’s gonna make it!

I have better luck with outdoor plants, I’ve realized. Mainly because I can just stick them in ground and leave them alone, I think, but whatever. I have some lavender that takes a hearty pruning every year and comes back bigger and more fragrant than ever. I have photinia I just whacked all to hell, and damned if it’s not sprouting new leaves a week later. Sadly, though, there are some new hydrangeas I just put in that are struggling. I water and talk to them. They’re pulling themselves along, looking beautiful one day and droopy the next. We’ll see.

I love plants. I want plants. I think I can learn how to better care for them. I don’t want to go back to the silk atrocities of the 90’s, so I’m going to keep trying. Hopefully, the plant sacrifices made today will benefit the ones in my care tomorrow.

Stamens crossed!