This is my Christmas cactus. It is named Christmas cactus for a reason; it blooms at Christmas. But not my cactus; it blooms in the middle of January. It should be renamed the Ides of January cactus. This plant and I are not friends. It continues to defy me.
I have this love/hate relationship with houseplants – I’ve posted about this before. Regardless of how I take care of them, houseplants come to my home to die. I am the Hospice of Houseplants. They start out healthy but I can’t keep them living more than a year or so. Then they get to a point where I simply want to rip them out by their little plant roots and toss them in the trash. Hateful houseplants sent to try my patience.
The pic below is of my Swedish Ivy plant. I got so tired of its shenanigans I sent it to the garage assuming it would quickly gasp its last breath and I could re-use the pot. It’s been in the garage in sub-freezing temperatures for 2 weeks now with neither water nor loving attention and it is still alive (well part of it is anyway). It is mocking me. I hate this plant. I am normally a peaceful, loving, kind woman. Plants bring out the venomous witch in me.
I feel a bit like Charlie Brown — with my houseplants being Lucy and the football. I keep playing the part of the sucker who sees a pretty plant and brings it home only to find out later it has a terminal case of aphids or sheds staining pollen everywhere. (They ALL look nice at the garden center; it’s a vicious conspiracy.)
I’m going to tuck away my inner gardener for awhile and fill my house with silk philodendrons and silk sunflowers. Sooner or later the inner gardener will surface again — I tend to forget my cultivating conundrums.
Does P. Allen Smith ever suffer growers’ remorse?