04 February 2012


Sometimes in life you just need to admit that you are not good enough. There are just some things that some people cannot do and I admit that I am one of those people and this is one of these things. I have known for some time that I am a failure but I have never let myself fully believe in my own faults.

I fail, sometimes miserably. I wait. I let some time pass. And then I somehow decide that I am good enough – I have learned my lesson and have gathered up enough courage to do the unthinkable. And then I fail. Again.

I heard a line on a TV show last night: “Those who do, do. Those who don’t get out.” Sound advice. I should just quit while I am behind again but I am sure that one day a few years from now, I will just make the same mistake again.

If only I were my grandmother – then I would not have this issue. I would have a lot of other issues but at least this one would be solved.

Stupid plants. Who needs them anyway?

They call me black thumb. Anything that comes into my presence green and growing will die within days. I have no one to blame but myself, really. I have feelings of adoration for my plants. I water them sometimes. I bring them to the light. But they all die in time - and by "in time," I mean in very little time.

I think the longest plant I kept alive was an orchid I had for about a month. A friend told me that I simply needed to place three ice cubes in a pot once a week and the orchid would continue to bloom. Perfect. Easy. Simple. Awesome.

Then my plant stopped blooming. My gardening expert grandmother advised me that the plant was likely going into a dormant stage, which should be over in a week’s time.

Three weeks later I stopped waiting and threw the pot in the trash. That was more than a year ago.

A few weeks ago, I somehow decided that my black thumb of death had been mysteriously cured. Surely no one would have trouble growing anything in Singapore. There is a tropical climate, tons of sun, rain practically every day – my work would be minimal because Mother Nature would be doing everything.

I went to a very large plant shop and bought three types of herbs. I was tired of spending lots of money at the grocery store only to use a portion of the pack before they withered away in my refrigerator and made their way into my trash can. Fresh herbs are always better so I thought I would grow my own.

I paid around S$35 for three plants, brought them home, watered them once and, after three days, my rosemary was dead. I can never tell if something is dried out or overwatered but I definitely know when a plant is dead with no hope of recovery.

Now, my grandmother has a special gift. She brings plants back from the dead. My grandmother lives 9,516.14 miles (15,314.74 kilometers) away – no, that is not an estimation – so she cannot exactly save me or my plants this time.

My husband has a number of personal humiliations to recall in order to push my buttons, and plant killing is certainly on the list this week. I am convinced that one of the reasons he does not want to have children is because he is sure I will care for our kids like I care for my plants – pretty much not at all. Paul has watered my plants once or twice since I had obviously not been watering them on any kind of schedule. And so I lost another one.

Poor thyme. Only my crazy version of oregano remains and I am not giving it much hope. What was I thinking?

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