Thursday, March 15, 2007


I am confessing (one of) my deepest, blackest sins right here in public. I don't expect any sympathy. I am hoping for some redemption since confession is supposed to be good for the soul. I am ... a killer, a stone killer of tender green things. My weapon of choice is neither bullet nor dagger nor poison. It is with my two bare Black Thumbs that I murder innocent and unsuspecting green plants. My latest victim is the Christmas poinsettia. It lived for three whole months, which is longer than its predecessors, but it has now bitten the dust.

Every year, I say "No! I will not buy one." Because I know what will happen; I know I won't be able to stop myself from ultimately strangling the life from the poor unsuspecting thing. And then some store clerk panders to my good nature and hands me a victim by emphasizing how full and beautiful it is and lying to me about how easy it is to care for. "This thing will take care of itself!" they claim, dollar signs glittering in their lying eyes. "There's no way you can kill it!" I don't know why lightning bolts don't come down and smite them. I fall for the line -- again -- take it home, and do what they say. I give it the recommended dosage of light. I give it water. I give it ... love. And then I kill it anyway. It's always an accident (so it's not First Degree Murder) but, still, the poor tender thing which started out with such promise ends up a scraggly, brown, dried out corpse. I'm still a murderer.

And it gets worse. I seem to have a vocation for serial murder. As long as I'm in the confessional, I suppose it behooves me to admit that I've also killed the Valentine's Day plant. I don't even know what it was, but it was pretty, with fluffy, rounded green leaves and pert red blossoms. Now it's ... dead. I'll try to revive it with one more drink of water, but I doubt it'll survive my last-ditch ministrations. I should just call it what it is -- Last Rites.

Twisted Linguistics got hold of these Words Gone Wild which could all use a good choking.

in my wild-less dreams - Very boring (probably Fundamentalist) dreams.

revereberated - Something that is worshipped and harangued at the same time.

aggrivation - Deprived of annoyances.

astonds me - Asteroid a-fall froma sky and a-stonds me senseless when it-a hit me inna ma head.

meyham - That pig belongs to moi!

If we error - Forgiveness me for the err of my ways.

history bares repeating - Going back to the nude beach for another look.

the King is a slovenly oath - The King is very messy in his cussing.

I'm doing Dress-up Thursday. I'm wearing pale grey Glenn-plaid pants, my white "pirate" shirt (I just love these billowy "balloon" sleeves), and clogs. Accessories include gold drop earrings, gold link bracelet, and ... pearls. As an aside to the ladies, satin bra straps look pretty and skin loves their softness, but -- they won't stay up. Are you playing dress-up with me? What are you wearing?

In honor of St. Patrick's Day (Saturday), let's find out how Irish we are.

You're 70% Irish

You're very Irish, and most likely from Ireland.
(And if you're not, you should be!)


Roxan said...

I'm also as Irish as you are. I'd probably be more Irish if I drank and was Catholic. LOL

I also murder green things. Hey, let's go on a murder spree!!!

Kanrei said...

I would say it is euthinasia (sp?). Plants die. Just because your plants die does not mean you killed them. Maybe it was their time. Maybe you are the tool of Karma and those plants had it coming for a past life sin. Or you could be the Jeffery Dahmer of the plant world. You are not eating the corpses, are you?

Serena Joy said...

Of course not, Kan! I'm just a killer, not a pervert. I only eat plants that somebody else killed and packaged up all fresh and pretty.

Oh, boy, Roxan, what a great idea -- a spree kill! It's just too damn bad Truman Capote is gone and there will be no one to write about us.:)

Kanrei said...

You're 30% Irish

You're probably less Irish than you think you are...
But you're still more Irish than most.

More than I thought. I think the lack of tanning did it for me.

Liz said...

You know those 'air plants'? The ones that don't need any looking after, they just survive? I killed one.

I currently have a plant in the living room that is starting to get brown leaves. I feel sorry for plants that come to live with me. Or you. We don't mean to do it; we are kind gentle ladies. Who only occasionally kill people who stop us eating chocolate.

Serena Joy said...

Ah, geez, Liz. We're going to end up in Plant Prison. They'll make us wear green striped jumpsuits -- and study horticulture.

Don't feel bad. I've killed an air plant, too. They told me it was indestructible. Ha!

tfg said...

The marijuana crop is still intact, though, isn't it?

Scary Monster said...

Me not very Irish, me just likes Guinness. Me knows how it feels to be unable to keep the green things florishing and healthy. Someone told me to play music for them while me were not at home, so me put on the Beatles and accidentally pushed the repeat button while Helter Skelter were playing. By the time me got home all me house plants were dead and me cat had lost half her fur

Scary Monster said...

Oh Yeah,

Quidrock said...

I even killed my moonflowers that Marion gave me seeds for. I can't grow grass. Maybe we're related.


Serena Joy said...

Um, I'm not supposed to talk about that, TFG. But I can tell you that the cultures in my refrigerator are thriving.

Oh, dear, Scary. Was there shredding? And scary words written on the walls in sap? It's too bad the cat got caught in the fray. I hope its fur grew back.:)

Quid, my moonflower seeds never even came up. I think they knew in whose hands they'd ended up and they committed suicide.

NYD said...

Hey I lookin very Irish my self today!
I think I'll head down to the pub after work and have myself a Whisky.

I only keep fake plants and flowers around the office. No matter how hard you try, ya just can't kill em

Serena Joy said...

Hey, there, NYD. It's good to see you out and about again. Fake plants are an excellent idea. I only kill those when I suck them up in the vacuum cleaner or the dog chews them.:)

Hale McKay said...

I'm not even a wee bit Irish? How wrong they are - and I answered truthfully.

Oh well!

SJ, we hit 1000 on the visit-meter.

Serena Joy said...

Sometimes the quizzes suck, Mike. You lie, you pass; you tell the truth, you flunk. Kind of mirrors life, no?

1000 -- woo-hoo! I knew it was going to hit it sometime today. Are we celebrating?:)

littlebirdblue said...

OOOooo--extra bonus point to S-J for using "Glenn-plaid" (I'm such a textile whore).

Okay. You cannot be any more guilty of vegicide than I. And one year, someone gave me one of those beautiful poinsettias, and it died the ugly, twiglike black-rooted ragged-leaved death that I inflicted upon it. I, lazy a-hole that I am, tossed it out the back door, where it lay, untended, under a bush half-spilled from its broken pot-- and thrived within a few weeks to this amazing lush flowering plant, all because I decided to leave it alone and stay far away.

in my wild-less dreams - Very boring (probably Fundamentalist) dreams.

makes me think of that one about why the Southern Baptists don't "do it" standing up...'cause somebody might think they were dancin'.

Serena Joy said...

I love Glenn-plaids, Littlebird. I have them in several colors.

Are you telling me there's hope for my poor dead poinsettia? If I throw it out the back door, it could run for cover, root itself in, hide from me, and -- live? I'm going to do it. That'll be much better than a funeral.

Good Baptist joke. LOL!

LZ Blogger said...

Wow a BLACK Thumb? Sounds like my daughter in law. She can kill a silk plant! ~ jb///

littlebirdblue said...

***You're 55% Irish***

You're very Irish, and most likely from Ireland.
(And if you're not, you should be!)

St. Pat's Day is my brother's birthday; how Irish is he?

Anonymous said...

A killer of plants. Three is no rememption for you. Just kidding. If you left them alone they would die anyway. There is always someone willing to sell you another.

Serena Joy said...

I think these vegicidal (love that word, Camille!) tendencies are genetic, so I may be related to your daughter-in-law, LZ.

Wow, Camille, your brother gets a double whammy b-day celebration. He certainly has the luck o' the Irish.

That's the whole problem, Steve -- there IS always somebody willing to sell me another. They ought to be arrested.:)

Corn Dog said...

I'm a killa too. I don't touch the lovely plants in our house. Hubbs waters and tends to them gentlely. They are beautiful. He wonders about my farm upbringing. So do I? I am vice pres of the Black Thumb Group. You can be Pres.

Serena Joy said...

LOL, Corn Dog. I never thought about it before, but I was born on a farm. I wonder if the parents took a look at my thumbs and decided it was time to sell off those green acres?

I think a Black Thumb Society is an excellent idea. It will have to be a secret society, of course. We don't want the hoi-poloi to know when we're mounting up for another Grail hunt. Not that the Grail, a green thing, will look like anything recognizable to humans when we get back with it.