I had reached a point in my life where I was making enough money to afford my first apartment in a nice section of south Brooklyn, not too far from the beaches and a huge park.
When it came to the love department, I found myself the stereotypical late bloomer. When I finally woke up and started meeting young men, my parents had shrugged off or even disapproved of most of the guys I was dating, feeling they were not ambitious, rich, or good enough for their precious daughter.
I learned not to tell my parents every single detail of my dating exploits.
When I got tired of dating, I tried experimenting with the ‘relationship’ phase of my life. I figured that if the chemistry was good enough, practice makes perfect. But no relationship is perfect.
An old boyfriend thought he was being a smart aleck when he brought me a small, crated carton holding a bouquet of cacti.
They were tiny and actually pretty with colorful spouts of miniature cactus flowers and prickly, sharp needles. He did it as a private joke, just to aggravate me no doubt, arguably to push my buttons, about the time my boss and his secretary were both on their respective vacations, and I accidentally overwatered the office cactus to death.
This was no ordinary cactus, mind you. It was a six and a half foot, healthy, Mexican Fence Post cactus. Botanically known as Pachycereus marginatus. It looked impressive in a masculine, majestic kind of way, a perfect phallic symbol, come to think of it, sitting in the southwest corner of the boss’s huge office in the Manhattan financial district. And while I dreaded the day they both would be returning to work, I kept thinking it wasn’t really my fault.
In my mind, it was Francesca’s fault. OK —maybe I’ll concede to fifty percent. Although this might fall under a no-fault classification.
Like Thelma, I had my Louise.
Like Sherlock, I had my Watson.
I normally don’t like to blame others for my missteps.
My work partner in crime was named Francesca. She was a beautiful and close co-worker, a trusted confidante and soul sister. We both reported directly to the CEO’s administrative assistant and shared her responsibilities while she was away. Francesca was the one who reminded me that together we should Windex the glass conference table, organize the inbox, and water the plants in the office. Watering the thirsty golden pothos seemed fine.
But, have you any idea what a big six and a half foot, unfed cactus looks like when you overwater it by more than just a drop? I can tell you this - just imagine a shrunken, misshapen pickle, at least half its former size.
Then, to make matters worse, Francesca saw it and felt badly for me. She thought that she would use a piece of gentle facial tissue to soak up some of the excess water that had seeped into the plant, and to give it a general dusting, but all that did was leave minuscule, nicked white wedges stuck to the prickly needles and green cactus flesh, like the little flecks of tissue to stop the bleeding after a close shave.
I just stared at the pickled cactus, not believing my eyes.
I was royally screwed.
Over lunch, Francesca and I assessed the situation.
“A no-brainer,” she told me.
“Let’s order a new one and be done with it.” She was adamant.
I feared it would never get there in time and it would all be wasted effort. But, it was worth a try.
The florist was a big account with us and expedited the order.
I felt I had dodged a bullet and gotten away with murder.
Sadly, I never was able to successfully develop the knack for cultivating plants at home or at the office. Orchids had zero chance. I held a funeral for my ficus. Last rites were administered to a sad bonsai. That was particularly crushing for me.
I was the one who wanted to rescue things. Dogs, kittens, distraught girlfriends, ex-boyfriends. It was not my intention for anything to end up needing to be rescued from me.
My boyfriend knew the truth and it tickled him to tease me for trying to fix everything that was broken. For trying to make everything perfect. And just so.
He might have struck a nerve.
I wondered what might be responsible for driving my desire for perfection. Was it something I was born with or did I inherit it from an attentive, controlling mother?
Based on my taste in men and other mistakes in life, I knew that I was far from perfect and told him that if he ever expected to jump my bones in this or the next life, he would never ever again refer to me as the serial plant killer.
I know I could have found other things to threaten him with instead, but sex was the first thing that came to mind. It was, after all, the thing he probably most desired from me.
He had promised, but still, there he stood, grinning at the doorway, holding this beautiful, unexpected bouquet.
And there I stood speechless, understanding something unspoken about life and what makes people tick.
Grace Notes: While the names have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty, it is a blessing for me to have a muse named Francesca in my life.
© Connie Song 2022. All Rights Reserved.
